The Colour of Heartbreak
by alatariel-gildaen
Summary: England, 1810. While Europe falls to the dictator Napoleon Bonaparte, two very different magicians rise to restore magic to England's shores. While the war rages on and the two magicians, Heavensbee and Mellark, disagree over the fundamentals of magic, Peeta must use all of his powers to rescue Katniss from a terrible fate. Historical and fairytale AU. Cover by Ro Nordmann.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N - Firstly huge huge HUGE thanks go to Court81981 for her wonderful beta work, to Streetlightlove1 for pre-reading, and to Ro Nordmann for the gorgeous cover. Thanks to all you gorgeous ladies :)**

**This Everlark story is based on the wonderful Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell by Susanna Clarke. Some characters belong to her, others belong to Suzanne Collins.**

**Anyway, this is very different to anything else I have ever attempted, and I'd really appreciate your feedback! Reviews are appreciated, and if you have any questions, come and find me on tumblr (I'm alatarielgildaen on there)**

* * *

Magic had long since left England. Tales of the past glories of magicians and their fairy-servants had passed into folklore, and the general populace believed that their fair country would never see the like again.

All over the country, societies dedicated themselves to keeping the memory of magic alive. These men all called themselves magicians, but they could no more do actual practical magic as they could learn to fly. Instead of practising magic, these men called themselves theoretical magicians, and spent their days in great debate. They debated the use of magic in the past. They debated which fairies individual magicians favoured as their servants. They debated the types of spells used and the different lands that a master of magic could travel between.

Mr Finnick Odair had been born and raised in Whitby. He was a fisherman's son, although after his mother's death, his father had remarried above his station, and the family had therefore come into a little money, which meant that Finnick was able to pursue other pleasures. And he had always longed to learn more about the magicians of the past. However, magic was a profession generally reserved for gentlemen of leisure, as books about magic were rare and expensive, and books of magic even more so.

Coming from a poor town such as Whitby, Mr Odair was starved of company from whom he could learn. But he knew that in York there existed one of the largest magical societies. The societies, known as Districts, were numbered around the country, and York was the home of District 12.

At first, when Mr Odair arrived at a District 12 meeting, he was happy to observe the older theoretical magicians in their endless debate, unsure that they would appreciate the input from one so young. However, Mr Odair was possessed with a natural charm, and during a lull in the conversation, he asked the question that burned in him the most.

"Perhaps the esteemed gentlemen here present could answer me, why is it that magic is no longer performed in England?"

Poor Mr Odair! He had not predicted the uproar that such a question would cause! Half the magicians looked at him with scorn, saying that they knew permitting entry to District 12 to one so young had been a mistake. Another group proclaimed that magic had not been seen in England in over three hundred years, and that was just the way it was. And yet another group stood side by side with Mr Odair, saying that his young blood was precisely what was required to inject life into their District, that it was their undeniable duty to see magic returned to its former glory.

"Then," continued Mr Odair, "why has no one seen fit to contact the gentleman who lives at Northolt Abbey? Mr Heavensbee? I heard tales that he is a practical magician."

The uproar continued unabated. Some of the magicians from District 12 believed the tales to be greatly exaggerated. Some wondered why Mr Heavensbee hadn't sought out their company if his claims had any truth to them.

The debate raged on, and a notion occurred to Mr Odair. These men loved debate, but not a single one of them seemed fond of action. In fact, the idea of practical magic returning to England almost appeared to frighten them. And so he decided that he would write to the gentleman who was secluded away at Northolt Abbey himself and ask him for a demonstration of his magic. Surely, as an Englishmen, it was his duty to his King to return England to her former glory if he had the ability.

After four weeks, Mr Odair received his reply, but not in the form expected. A surly, scruffy-looking man introduced himself in a thick, Yorkshire accent at a District 12 meeting as Mr Haymitch Abernathy, Mr Plutarch Heavensbee's personal assistant. He wasted no time in telling the District of Mr Heavensbee's intentions.

"Sirs, the gentleman for whom I work wishes to assure you all that magic has not left England. He is willing to do a practical demonstration for you, but… there is one condition."

One of the older magicians, a Mr Cray, who had been in charge of District 12 for many, many years, looked upon this scruffy-looking fellow with disdain. "And what, _sir,_ might this condition be?"

A smirk passed across the face of Mr Abernathy before he pulled a sheaf of papers from inside his coat pocket. "I have here a contract that Mr Heavensbee wishes you all to sign. If he gives a successful demonstration of his magic, he demands that District 12 disbands immediately, and that henceforth no members call themselves magicians anymore. He has, of course, already signed to say that if he fails, he will give up the title of magician himself."

If Mr Odair's suggestion of contacting Mr Heavensbee had caused outrage in District 12, it was nothing compared to the uproar that now occurred. But while the debate reignited, Mr Odair experienced a terrible, sinking sensation. More than anything, his deepest desire was to see practical magic performed, but he could not give up being a magician himself. If he wasn't a magician, who was he? He was no longer the fisherman's son that he had grown up as. Without the title of 'magician,' there was no place for him in society.

Eventually, all of District 12 agreed to sign the contract. Some, like Mr Cray, signed immediately out of a kind of vanity; they had publicly declared Mr Heavensbee's magic to be false, and so to back away from such a claim would only cause themselves embarrassment. Some signed out of curiosity. Some signed because they felt they had nothing to lose. One by one, every member of the District 12 society signed the piece of paper, until only Mr Odair was left.

Imagine the despair that poor Mr Odair felt! All his life he had dreamed of living in the company of magicians, and here he was, barely four weeks into his dream, and he was being obliged to give it up! As the contract was passed to him, he plucked up his heart, and stoutly declared, "No, sir! I will not sign! I wish more than anything to see magic returned to England. Why, it is at my request that you are here now! If I give up magic, what is left for me?"

Mr Abernathy smirked and took the contract back from Mr Odair. "Mr Heavensbee believed that you would react this way," he said, his voice lowering to almost a whisper. "As such, he gave me explicit instructions that you, and you alone, will be able to continue to study magic, although you cannot do it here in Yorkshire. You will be obliged to find another District to take you in, if any will. I daresay your reputation for helping to destroy 12 will precede you. But I may be wrong," he shrugged. He turned his back on Mr Odair and glanced over the contract before turning back to face the District. "Thank you, gentlemen. This all seems to be in order. Mr Heavensbee will perform the magic two weeks from today. Gather at the entrance to the Royal Park at midday. Good day to you, sirs."

The air was crisp and clear, and a frost hung about the leaves of all the trees on the morning that Mr Heavensbee had promised to perform his magic. Midday came and went, and there was neither a sight nor sound of the magic that Mr Heavensbee had promised to perform, nor even of the man himself. Mr Cray laughed, a cold, humourless bark and said, "The man was full of bluster. We had nothing to fear from such a man. Why, with a servant as disreputable as his, would we ever have fallen for such a poor trick?"

At that moment a strange ripple passed over everything in sight, as if there was a second world occupying the space of the first, just out of sight, just out of reach, but present nonetheless. A scruffy, surly-looking fellow appeared in front of them. Mr Abernathy seemed to have stepped out of the cold air itself, and he took all the magicians by surprise as he spoke in his thick, Yorkshire accent.

"Gentlemen, my apologies for my tardiness. Mr Heavensbee is ready to perform the magic."

The members of District 12 looked around for the elusive Mr Heavensbee, but he was nowhere to be seen. The scruffy-looking gentleman walked straight up to Mr Odair and spoke in a hushed voice, "Mr Heavensbee wishes to employ you, sir. You will still have to leave Yorkshire if you wish to continue to study magic. In return for his generous allowance, you will be required to perform certain duties. If I were you, I would accept this offer, sir. Just to be prudent."

A voice, not quite human, more melodic and bird-like, echoed the words, "Just to be prudent," and soon the words were echoing all around them. One of the District 12 magicians looked up and pointed out a black-and-white bird sat in a tree, that opened his beak and sung the words "Just to be prudent! Just to be prudent!" The birds were all around them, copying their words, repeating them back to each other, causing a great cacophony of noise that reached up to the heavens.

The magicians spent an hour marvelling at the talking birds, laughing as they repeated their sentences back in their trill, sing-song voices, before, one by one, the birds began to fly away. And just as the birds were disbanded, so District 12 was no more.

Most of the magicians now found themselves without occupation. And rather unfairly too, I must say. For what is a magician if he is unable to debate his chosen subject? Many of the men now took to idling about their homes all day, getting under the feet of their wives, and upsetting the servants.

But this is not their tale. And so now we rejoin Mr Odair. Like all the other magicians in District 12, he had been suitably impressed by the demonstration of magic. But what use to England was a demonstration in the heart of York? How would the important persons in government, the high society of London, hear about it? Mr Abernathy gave explicit instructions to Mr Odair to travel to London, to write to the periodicals and praise the Yorkshire man who was bringing magic back to England. A man with his natural charm was sure to find a place in London society after all.

Mr Odair felt he had little choice. The way the offer had been presented to him, it was quite clear that it was this, or give up the profession that he held so dear….

* * *

"Well, sir, you've achieved your first goal," said Haymitch as he poured Mr Heavensbee a glass of brandy. He handed the drink to his master then proceeded to pour a similar glass for himself. It was true that they did not have the usual master/servant relationship, and Mr Heavensbee barely raised an eyebrow when Haymitch took a seat opposite him, as if he were an equal. "You've effectively destroyed all claims to magicianship in Yorkshire. If you can take over the whole of the North, why, maybe you can even lay claim to the throne of the Raven King himself."

Plutarch Heavensbee shot Haymitch a look that was half anger, half fear, almost as if he expected the Raven King himself to appear to face this challenge to his throne.

"Haymitch," he said with exaggerated patience, "you know full well it is not, nor has it ever been, my intention to lay any kind of claim to any kind of throne. I merely wish to make magic once again a respectable profession. And I will do so without the aid of the Raven King, nor any of his wicked fairy brethren."

"Of course, sir. My apologies."

The two men drank their brandy in silence while Haymitch withdrew a pouch of tobacco and rolled a cigarette. Mr Heavensbee flashed Haymitch an admonishing look. "Not around the books," he said sternly.

Haymitch raised an eyebrow at his master but conceded defeat and tucked his unlit cigarette behind his ear. He looked around the library. Beautifully and elaborately carved mahogany bookshelves lined every single wall, and there was not a free space on any of the shelves. This was a collection that would thrill any bibliophile, but it was also a collection quite unlike any other.

Any magician would pay handsomely for a book _about_ magic. Books about magic gave detailed histories of past magicians and their feats and very specifically described the effects of the spells they used, but none were ever able to describe the spells themselves. These were only ever found in books _of_ magic, which were exceptionally rare. And Plutarch Heavensbee had amassed the greatest collection of books of magic anywhere in the civilised world.

There were times, Haymitch had to admit to himself, that he found himself uncomfortable in that great library. Perhaps it was the impression the books gave that some of them were able to breathe. Or that some even seemed to whisper to him. Perhaps his discomfort arose when he witnessed anyone other than Mr Heavensbee or himself attempt to read even a title of one of those books, how they would squint at the printed spines, unable to make out a single letter. Or how, if they attempted to take a book from a shelf, they would find themselves entirely unable to lift it even an inch. Whether a spell had been cast in the library by Heavensbee, or whether it was the books protecting themselves, Haymitch was unsure. He wasn't entirely certain if he truly wanted to know.

Sensing that a change of subject was best, Haymitch picked up his brandy and swirled it around the glass. "What of the one that got away?"

"Mr Odair? He could be useful, for now. I am well aware that I need someone to introduce me when I travel to London. People are easy to manipulate when you hold something of importance over their head. If he fails to do as he is told, he has nowhere to go. Once word gets out to the other Districts of his part in 12's downfall then he will be shunned. So, I believe Mr Odair will simply do as he is told."

Haymitch nodded and sipped at his brandy. Mr Heavensbee was like a master chess player, willing to sacrifice anything to win the endgame. He wondered briefly when it would be his own sacrifice that was called upon.

"Anyway," continued Mr Heavensbee, "I will be far happier when the other Districts go the way of District 12. And with the false magicians gone, we are left to our far greater task."

"And what might that be, sir?"

"To bring magic back to England and to make it respectable once again. To make England forget every connection magic had with those demonic beasts known as fairies. And our biggest challenge of all: the complete eradication of the memory of the Raven King."

Haymitch stared at his master for a moment, swallowing the bile that threatened to rise. He was a Northerner, and if there was one thing that was dear to the hearts of all Northern Englishmen, it was their connection to the Raven King, the beautiful English child taken by fairies when he was just a boy, raised to become the greatest magician the world had ever known. It was said that the Raven King ruled over three separate Kingdoms: Northern England, the entirety of Fairie, and a strange land located somewhere on the other side of Hell. And even though the Raven King had ridden out of England three hundred years earlier and had not been seen since, many Northerners still felt a stronger allegiance towards him than towards the current monarch, afflicted as he was with his terrible madness.

Haymitch nodded pensively, doing his best to keep his feelings hidden. It would not do well for Mr Heavensbee to know the paths down which his thoughts were straying.

* * *

It was tremendously difficult for Finnick Odair arriving in London and knowing no one. At first, he was able to rent some small rooms in Drury Lane. Not exactly respectable, but suitable to his purposes. And from his cramped bedroom, he wrote to all the periodicals, but no one seemed especially keen to publish the opinion of an unknown son of a fisherman regarding some disturbance that took place in Yorkshire, of all places.

A kind of panic began to consume him, as the threats hanging over him, placed there by Mr Heavensbee, seemed to become ever more present. If he was to do Mr Heavensbee's bidding, he would have to begin making a name for himself in London.

And so Mr Odair began to ensconce himself in London society. It was slow going at first, but he was gifted with enough natural beauty and charm that very soon he was a regular face amongst the capital's parties.

He almost began to forget Mr Heavensbee's request, and Mr Abernathy's less-than-subtle hints that unless he was successful in his mission to introduce Mr Heavensbee to London society, he would no longer be able to call himself a magician—that is, until a polite but firm letter arrived reminding him of his duties.

He had no choice but to find some kind of patronage, someone with influence who would stand firm behind his words. Already Mr Odair was finding himself hopelessly drawn towards the beautiful Miss Annie Cresta, daughter of Sir Adam Cresta, an estate owner in Hertfordshire. Sir Adam was highly influential in London society, and it occurred to Mr Odair that with Sir Adam's patronage, he would be published by any of the periodicals.

When at last Mr Odair's description of the magic performed in York was published in _The London Review, _it caused less of a ripple than a pebble thrown into the Thames. Many people were liable to believe it was a joke and immediately dismissed it as a strange piece of satire. Mr Odair's fast wit was becoming well known in society, after all.

"What am I to do, Miss Cresta?" he asked one evening, collapsing into an armchair, as worried servants pressed a comforting glass of brandy into his hand. "I have failed. I have done what was asked of me, but I have still failed. Mr Heavensbee is sure to strip me of my right to be a magician."

"This Mr Heavensbee sounds an odd sort of creature to me," said Annie thoughtfully. "I cannot understand why any man would want to remove himself from the company of his own contemporaries."

"You cannot understand because you are sweet and pure. Mr Heavensbee has designs on power, of that I can be certain. And the easiest way for him to ensure he has the most power is to ensure that other men have none. And seeing as he is the only man in England with the ability to do practical magic, he has a fair claim."

"It will not do," said Sir Adam. "It would not suit a country to have only one politician, able to run everything as only he saw fit. Why should magic be governed by a single person?"

"Sir Adam, what Mr Heavensbee has done is remarkable, even if it may not appear it to people in London just yet. This is the first real magic done in two hundred years. After the Raven King disappeared from the North, magic slowly began to dwindle until we simply forgot it all."

"It does not seem all that remarkable to me. I fail to see how talking birds can be of any use to England. And by your own account they could only repeat what was heard. We couldn't even have conversations with them!"

"It was a simple demonstration, Sir Adam, that is all. The proof that magic could still be done. I am loathe to admit it, but Mr Heavensbee could be a great asset to England, and particularly to the war effort."

"Not from York, he won't be. If he wishes to show how he can help England then he needs to travel to London himself and show us how he can be of assistance. We are of course grateful he sent you to us, Mr Odair, but he cannot rely on the words of one man to achieve greatness."

Mr Odair sighed as he sat back in the armchair and sipped at his brandy. "You are right, Sir Adam. I will write to him. Tell him to come here himself. Although you are right in another aspect too. I wish there were at least one other magician, so that Mr Heavensbee's opinion does not end up being the sole one."

"Well, what if there was another practical magician?" said Miss Cresta.

"But there are no others."

"But what if there were?"

Miss Cresta was watching him with such earnest. Her meaning could not have been more apparent. "I truly am flattered," he smiled, quite unable to meet her intense gaze, "But I have no one to learn from. I have no books. And I have a feeling Mr Heavensbee will not be interested in taking me on as a pupil."

"Have you thought of talking to the street magicians?" asked Sir Adam.

"Oh, absolutely! Father, what a wonderful idea! You should visit Marvel; he is the best of all the street magicians! I am sure that for a few coins he would be willing to take you on as a pupil!"

Street magicians were rife in London. These gypsies and travellers claimed to be able to tell fortunes and prophecies. When most Londoners thought of magicians, it was these pretenders that first came to their minds. Mr Odair knew more than most that he would never be able to learn actual practical magic from one of these charlatans, but Miss Cresta seemed so taken with the idea that he felt unable to deny her.

The following day he took to London's foggy, smoke-clogged streets, seeking out the filthy booth that Miss Cresta had described as belonging to Marvel, the most popular of all the pretenders. He recognized the booth from the description Miss Cresta had given of the tattered yellow curtain. Tentatively, he pulled the curtain to one side.

In front of him was a wretched creature. Tall and skeletally thin with sunken eyes, he barely looked human, an appearance exaggerated by the spidery tattoos covering every visible inch of skin. At the sight of Mr Odair, his eyes grew wide, a hungry expression crossing over them. "You want to know your fortune, sir?" he asked. "Know where to find a beautiful bride? Or perhaps a willing mistress? For a shilling I can tell you all you wish to know."

Feeling slightly embarrassed by the whole situation, Mr Odair took a seat on a rickety stool, while Marvel reached inside his shabby coat and withdrew a deck of cards. He set them on the velvet-draped table and held his palm out towards Mr Odair expectantly. The latter cleared his throat and said, "I am not here to have my fortunes read."

If it were possible, Marvel's gaunt eyes opened even wider and took on an aspect of fear. "Sir, I need just a little more time. Give me one more week, and I shall get you your money."

"Neither am I here to collect debts."

Marvel slumped to his seat and took a deep, hacking cough. "Then leave. I have no need for time wasters."

Mr Odair reached inside his own coat and withdrew a silk purse filled with coins. He dropped this on the table in front of Marvel and said, "I wish to learn magic."

Marvel licked his dry, cracked lips and reached across the table for the purse, but before he could reach it, Mr Odair covered the purse with his own hand. "I also wish it to be known that I know you are a fraud. I am here only as a favour to one I hold dear. But," he said, uncovering the purse once more, "I cannot bear to see a man, even a wretch such as yourself, go hungry."

An odd look passed over Marvel's face. Hurriedly, he took up the deck of cards and shuffled them, then placed one face up on the table in front of him. A curious grin tugged at his lips, revealing a mouth of cracked, yellow teeth, and he snapped his head up to meet Mr Odair's gaze so suddenly that Mr Odair felt himself start. "I've been waiting for you," he said in a tone that made goose bumps appear over Mr Odair's skin.

"For me?" he spoke back in a hushed tone, before shaking himself back to the present. Marvel was, at heart, a conman, and was clearly using every trick in his book to lure in his prey. And he, Mr Odair, was falling for it.

"Two magicians are destined to restore magic to England."

"And you think one of them is me?"

"No. Although you are instrumental in helping them. One claims to act in the best interest of magic, although it is usually only his own interests he serves. The other has intentions that are more noble, although he will appear far more dangerous to those around him. And while these men struggle for power, the nameless slave will rise and become King of a strange and foreign land. You already know one of these gentlemen, I believe, Mr Odair."

How did this wretch know his name? It was an impossibility!

"How could you…?"

"I have long known of the restoration of English magic, Mr Odair. And that one day you would seek me out."

Once again, imagine the sadness felt by Mr Odair at hearing this news—at hearing how his destiny was not his own! Nobly putting aside his own bitter disappointment he said, "You are correct that I already know one of these eminent gentlemen. Tell me of the other."

"You need not find him. He will come to you."

"Tell me, wretch. Why should I believe this prophecy? How did you come by it?"

Marvel looked over the strange tattoos covering his entire body. "It was passed to me. Many years ago. You can choose to believe it or not. It will come true either way." Marvel eyed the silk purse greedily and snatched the coins up before he held open the tattered yellow curtain, dismissing Mr Odair from his fortune-telling booth.

Back in the cold London air it seemed easier to dismiss the ramblings and ravings of the strange, inked man as utter nonsense. He would return to the company of Sir Adam and Miss Cresta, exhilarated from his adventure, but no closer to learning magic than he had been that morning. And he would write to Mr Heavensbee who would come to London, and continue to hold sway over him. Perhaps magic was more trouble than it was worth, after all.

* * *

Mr Heavensbee hated travel with an intense passion. He hated the discomfort of the carriage, the constant movement, and the ever-present cold breeze. But more than anything, he hated being away from his precious library back at Northolt Abbey. For his journey to London, he was forced to only pack a few belongings, and choosing which books to take with him occupied an entire day. He couldn't bear to leave them behind, even though his library was entirely protected from outside intrusion, but the idea of them being taken outside of his library, even though they would be by his side, was enough to give him palpitations. Thanks to the constant complaining about trifling discomforts, by the time he and Haymitch finally arrived in London, Haymitch was almost ready to walk out on his master and seek a new fortune.

Mr Heavensbee took up residence in a house in Hanover Square. One room was entirely dedicated to the housing of the books he had finally chosen to bring with him. By any accounts, it was still one of the most impressive libraries in England, although still paled in significance compared with the treasures he had left behind.

For several weeks, Mr Heavensbee stayed locked in his new home, complaining about the draughts, or the smaller proportions to the rooms, or the lack of light in his sitting room after four o'clock. The constant complaints grated sorely upon Haymitch's nerves, compounded by Mr Heavensbee's apparent refusal to actually do anything. They had travelled the length and breadth of the country in order to try and restore English magic, and yet Mr Heavensbee remained beset by inaction.

"They will come to me," he kept saying to Haymitch.

His servant, of course, knew better and secretly called upon the services of Mr Odair.

"What am I to do?" Mr Odair beseeched Haymitch. "Words of little more than parlour tricks in York have no effect on these people. If Mr Heavensbee wishes to prove his usefulness, why, he must go out and do it himself!"

"And he will. He merely requires an opportunity. Surely with the connections you have forged you can think of something. I would hate to have to tell Mr Heavensbee that you are being obtuse."

Oh, despair! Mr Odair was becoming all too well acquainted with that feeling! "There is one chance," he said, shaking his head sadly. "But I do not know how possible it will be for me to arrange a meeting."

"I am sure you will find a way," replied Haymitch, leaving Mr Odair alone once again.

Mr Christopher Everdeen was the Foreign Minister. As well as being highly influential within government, he was a well-liked and well-respected member of society. His daughters were both intelligent and beautiful. Primrose had exceptional talent on the pianoforte, while Katniss' voice had the magic to enchant anyone around her. Both were exceptionally loved, and as such, the tragedy of Katniss being diagnosed with consumption struck the people of London a severe blow.

She bore it stoically, never once complaining of her severe discomfort. A good friend of Miss Cresta's, Mr Odair had met her only once, and had been struck by the sadness that one so young and beautiful would likely soon lose their life to such a terrible disease.

He had read once that magic could be used to cure all manner of illnesses and ailments, and so perhaps Mr Heavensbee would be able to succeed where doctors and surgeons had failed.

At first, when he made the suggestion, Annie shot it down without a second thought. Her distrust of Mr Heavensbee made her irrationally dismiss the idea without fully comprehending that it could mean her friend's full return to life. However, after visiting Katniss, and being left in tears at how cold and close to death her dear friend was, Annie was moved to action. She begged her father to speak with Mr Everdeen, to allow this strange magician access to poor Katniss. Out of desperation for his daughter, willing to try anything, Mr Everdeen agreed.

Tragedy struck too soon, however. Arrangements had been made for Mr Heavensbee to visit the young Miss Everdeen, and before he had even been able to warm his hands from the bitter cold outside, Madge, Miss Everdeen's attendant, came running into the parlour in tears, to inform everyone that Miss Everdeen had passed on.

Mr Everdeen collapsed into a nearby armchair, his head in his hands. Cinna, his butler, immediately pressed a glass of brandy into his shaking hands, while Miss Primrose wept at her father's feet.

Seeing the private grief of everyone assembled, Mr Odair apologised to the family for their loss and began to back out of the room, expecting Mr Heavensbee and Haymitch to follow. However, Mr Heavensbee was muttering to himself. "It may not be too late, but…. This is precisely the kind of magic I wish to decry….. No. I cannot. I must not. But how else… It is dangerous, of course….. but the potential benefits…"

"Mr Heavensbee?" said Mr Odair, causing the older man to start suddenly.

The magician looked at Mr Odair fearfully, concerned that his fretful mutterings had been heard, and worse, understood, by the younger man. In an instant, his mind was made up, and he said out loud to the room, "It may not be too late for Miss Everdeen. I may still be able to help her yet."

"She is dead, dear God, man, let her rest!" said Sir Adam, his dislike of Mr Heavensbee clear for all the world to see.

"Then nothing my master can do can possibly disturb or harm her further," said Haymitch.

"Mr Everdeen," the magician addressed the grieving father directly, "time is entirely of the essence. Miss Katniss has only just passed. Which means she will be easy to find and bring back. The longer it is left, the more difficult the magic I wish to perform will be. Sir, at least allow me to try."

"You will not harm her?" said Mr Everdeen through his tears.

"I assure you, sir, that I will not."

Mr Everdeen was far too distressed to show Mr Heavensbee to where his daughter was lying upon her death-bed, and so the sad task was left to Madge. He insisted upon absolute solitude when performing the magic, closing the door on the maid behind him with a deep, heavy sigh.

Miss Everdeen looked as though she could merely be sleeping. Someone, probably her maid, had laid a handful of white roses over her perfect breasts, and had positioned her hands to clutch them. A light breeze ruffled her hair slightly, and Mr Heavensbee looked for the offending window in order to close it, fearful that his voice would carry into the street, even from here.

He checked that no one was waiting outside the door; it was imperative that no one ever know precisely what he was about to attempt. He stood at the foot of the bed, and moved his hand in a complicated movement over the body of Katniss Everdeen, whispering an ancient fairy name, long forgotten by most. Immediately, the breeze that had blown through the open window picked up again, although now it appeared to originate not from the window, but from the opposite wall.

"_Oh Lar!"_ said Mr Heavensbee, _"Magnum opus est mihi tuo auxilio. Haec virgo mortua est et familia eius eam ad vitam redire vult."_

A strange shimmering passed over the room. Suddenly the dimensions appeared differently, as if a whole new world existed in the room that could not be seen. The large, ornate, golden mirror hanging over Miss Everdeen's mantelpiece reflected a view that did not exist, and Mr Heavensbee suddenly understood where the strange breeze was coming from. Within the confines of the mirror, a castle in a terrible state of disrepair could be seen. The decaying walls and torn banners may once have been glorious, but years of neglect had taken their toll.

A figure could be seen moving within the mirror. A distinguished-looking gentleman with snow-white hair, dressed in the most impeccable clothing. Mr Plutarch swallowed his nervousness as the gentlemen stepped down from the mirror, and immediately rushed to the side of Miss Everdeen. His eyes widened, and as he spoke Mr Plutarch became aware of an otherworldly smell: a bizarre mixture of blood and roses. The gentleman with snow-white hair was speaking in a rapid fairy-tongue that Mr Plutarch found difficult to follow, although he appeared to be proclaiming Miss Everdeen's outstanding beauty.

He cleared his throat, and spoke again. "_Oh Lar, me ad hanc magnam operam te elegisse quia…."_

"I need not hear why you have chosen me to bring this woman back to life. I know that I am the most powerful of my race, that I have more magical power in this or any other world than lies in all the trees in the forests or stones in the mountains. The question, human, is who are you?"

Mr Plutarch stumbled over his words. He had not expected to be treated this way by anyone, and certainly not by a fairy. "I, sir? I am the greatest magician of the age! I am the only magician of this age!"

The gentleman with the snow-white hair stepped closer to Mr Plutarch, and a small, cold smile widened his lips, causing the smell of blood and roses to grow ever clearer. "No. There is another magician. He is just not yet aware."

Mr Heavensbee felt as though he had been doused in cold water. There could be no other magician, surely? This must be one of the fairy's devilish tricks. Shaking his head, and ignoring the ominous message for now, Mr Heavensbee said, "It is of vital importance that this woman be restored to life. You can do it?"

"Of course I can," replied the gentleman with snow-white hair, waving his hand dismissively. "But with what will you pay me?"

Mr Heavensbee's brow furrowed in confusion. In all his researches he had never heard of fairies demanding payment for their services. "Mr Everdeen, this woman's father, is a rich man and—"

"I have no need for jewels or riches. My request is simple. I have been the confidante and advisor of some of the greatest magicians in history; Thomas of Lanchester, Catherine of Winchester, I even sat beside Merlin at the court of King Arthur. Allow me to guide your studies, to teach you. And you will tell the world that your power comes from me."

Mr Heavensbee blanched at such a notion! His entire life had been dedicated to study, to prove that magic had not been eradicated from England, and most of all to prove that fairies were not a 'necessary evil' when it came to magic. And now that he had proven his first two points, he was to be thwarted on the third! It simply would not do. Mr Heavensbee mumbled quietly about the gentleman's kind offer, but how it was quite simply impossible to accept.

"Well," said the gentleman with a small laugh, and the temperature in the room dropped by several degrees. Outside the window, the falling rain suddenly turned to snow, and ice crystals began to form over the glass, reaching out with their frozen tendrils to create a mesmerizing pattern over the pane. "I will admit that I had not expected such a chill welcome. Had I known that I would be greeted by so little gratitude, I would not have made the journey. I knew Englishmen to be arrogant, but to refuse to acknowledge my help at all…. I have every mind to return presently to my Kingdom of Panem!"

"You refuse to help her, then?"

"I did not say that!" spat the gentleman. "It is a pity to waste one so beautiful. She would be greatly admired by so many…." The gentleman looked down over the body of Miss Everdeen, and a hungry smile crossed his face. "Give me half her life. That is my fee. I will accept nothing else."

Half her life? Miss Everdeen was twenty years old. If she had been blessed with full health, she could live to seventy, which gave her another fifty years. Half of that was twenty-five, meaning that Katniss could live to forty-five. And living to forty-five was surely better than dying at twenty.

"Half her life," agreed Mr Heavensbee.

The gentleman's smile widened, and the smell of blood and roses became overpowering. "I will require a token from her. Something personal." He bent over Miss Everdeen's body, shielding her from Mr Heavensbee's view, and when he stood up, Mr Heavensbee could see that the gentleman was secreting something away inside a small, ornate snuff box, decorated with a beautiful opal. It was impossible to properly describe the colour of this opal; not quite lilac, not quite pale blue, not quite grey. If one had to describe it, it could be said that the opal was the colour of heartbreak.

Without another word, the gentleman crossed to the mirror and stepped inside. As the reflection rearranged itself to show Miss Everdeen's room as it should be, the young woman herself sat up in bed with a deep gasp. She touched her own breast, amazed at the strength of the heart beating within it, before she held her hand up before her own face. A look of polite confusion passed over her visage and Mr Heavensbee witnessed the source of her confusion. The smallest finger on her left hand was missing. The smell of blood and roses hung in the air and, too late, Mr Heavensbee began to wonder precisely what he had bargained with, and what exactly the gentleman had meant by 'half her life.'

* * *

**A/N - Some latin translations!**

_Oh Lar! __Magnum opus est mihi tuo auxilio. Haec virgo mortua est et familia eius eam ad vitam redire vult - _**Oh Fairy! I have great need of your help! This virgin is dead and her family wish her to be returned to life**

_Oh Lar, me ad hanc magnam operam te elegisse quia_... - **Oh Fairy, I have chosen you for this great task because...**

**Again, thanks for reading, and please do leave a review, they mean the world to us fanfiction writers. Oh, and I promise you'll be meeting a certain blond-haired, blue-eyed fellow in the next chapter! :)**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N - First thanks go as always to Court81981 for encouragement, support, patience, and general all-round awesomeness. **

**Huge thanks also go to Streetlightlove1 for pre-reading. You two ladies are just fabulous.**

**This chapter is being dedicated to mellarksloaves (Everlark Pearl) - this hellish winter won't last forever hun, hang in there. Huge hugs in the meantime.**

**Please do leave feedback, I'd love to know what you think of this :) And feel free to follow me on tumblr - alatarielgildaen**

* * *

Mrs Eleanor Mellark was not known for her kindness. Indeed, she was known for being proud, avaricious and short-tempered, a reputation that had grown exponentially since her gentle husband's death. The servants were all terribly afraid of inciting her wrath, for she was known for lashing out at the slightest provocation.

When Gale Hawthorne came to work for Mrs Mellark, he was determined to make a name for himself. Like Mrs Mellark, he was proud, and could be quick to anger, but unlike Mrs Mellark, whose main trait was bitterness and nothing more, Gale's temperament featured many more shades of colour. He was also hardworking and fiercely loyal, and could almost be forgiven for the fact that he knew deep in his heart that he was better than the other servants, that it was only a matter of time until he was regarded above all other servants in the household.

The servants felt a little slighted by Gale's attitude on his first day, and so they sent him to wait upon Mrs Mellark, knowing full well that she would not take kindly to him. She sat hunched over a small table, reading through the estate accounts, in one of the smaller sitting rooms on the first floor. Almost immediately, she requested a single glass of elderflower wine.

Gale descended to the cool dampness of the cellar and sought out the wine that Mrs Mellark had requested, pouring her a single measure into a cut crystal glass. He delicately balanced the glass on to a tray and returned to Mrs Mellark, setting the drink down beside her. With a well-practised flick of her wrist, she drank the entire glass in a single gulp, and demanded another.

He felt a rush of annoyance that she would send him back down to the cellar so soon, but bowed his head towards her and did as she asked. On his return, Mrs Mellark repeated her actions, knocking the drink back in one single swig, and demanded yet another glass. Three times in total she sent him back to the cellar for a single glass. When she asked for the fourth time, Gale could contain his anger no more. "Dear God, woman, why did you not ask for the bottle, then?" he snapped, finally losing his patience.

Mrs Mellark's eyes narrowed at the young servant, and if any other servants had been present to witness Gale's outburst, their fear for his safety would have shown on every one of their faces. Mrs Mellark's cold voice became as ice. "I am sorry," she began, "if my request is too much trouble for you."

"Of course not," sighed Gale. "But if it pleases you, this time I shall fetch the rest of the bottle."

The following day, Mrs Mellark had a special request of the new servant. She handed him a sealed envelope and requested that he deliver it directly to Mr Stannard of Garçon Brisé Farm. She gave him explicit instructions on how to reach Garçon Brisé Farm, as it could not be reached by the main road. It was vitally important that Mr Stannard receive this letter by the end of the day, and it was a twenty-mile ride so Gale would have to leave immediately. He was then to return directly home.

The weather was not in Gale's favour. The heavens had opened up, and icy sheets of water came down thick and fast over the heads of any unfortunate enough to be outside. But Gale did not care. He had already been entrusted with this vitally important task. And why should it be any other way?

He quickly saddled up one of the strongest horses in the stables and rode out into the bitter rain. With each passing mile, his discomfort grew and grew, but he rode on, determined to show Mrs Mellark that he could be trusted with such an important task.

The wind picked up, howling through trees and over moors, chilling Gale to his very core, but still he rode on, until he reached an apple orchard, precisely as Mrs Mellark had described. She had explained that to the immediate left of the orchard was a path that would convey Gale directly to Garçon Brisé Farm. However, as far as the eye could see, to the left of the orchard was thick with briars.

Gale followed the path a little further until a small village came in to view. Garçon Brisé Farm was nowhere to be seen, so he presumed that the path he required had merely become a little overgrown. Dismounting from his horse, he pulled a knife from one of the saddle bags, and began to hack at the briars.

It was slow work, and the briars tore at his clothes and skin, as the rain lashed down harder and faster than ever. He had already been soaked to the bone and chilled through for hours, and by the time Gale had managed to cut through the overgrown briars to the clear pathway on the other side, he was nearing collapse from exhaustion.

Eventually, as the sun hung low in the sky, Gale spied a small farm in the distance. He urged his horse on ever faster, desperate to complete his task at last. Tethering his horse at the gatepost, he peered through the rain at the welcoming glow coming from the farm's windows, and stumbled towards the front door. Leaning heavily against the door frame, he banged three times on the oak door and waited for a response.

After a few moments, a comely-looking woman opened the door, stopping short at the sight of the desperate-looking fellow on her doorstep. Suspicion mingled with a little fear clouded her features, and she closed the door slightly, ready to slam it shut if necessary. "What do you want?" she demanded.

"I'm looking for Mr Stannard," choked out Gale, shuddering with cold.

"Mr Stannard?" replied the woman.

"This is Garçon Brisé Farm, yes?"

"Who sent you?"

"Mrs Mellark of Woodhay Manor. I have an important letter to deliver to Mr Stannard."

Immediately the woman's aspect changed from one of suspicion to one of motherly pity. "Oh, my dear," she said, opening the front door wider, "you must have done something to upset her. My husband has been dead these last five years. Garçon Brisé Farm, you say? You don't speak French, I take it? I am sorry, my dear, but she has played a rather nasty trick on you. Garçon Brisé, indeed. Broken boy…. Come in, warm yourself."

She manoeuvred the shuffling and practically frozen Gale into her large and welcoming kitchen, and sat him at a seat in front of a roaring fire.

"I cannot stay," he said, his teeth chattering. "I was given instructions to deliver the letter and return immediately."

"Yes, and if you fail to return to her promptly, she will only make it worse. However, I cannot allow you to leave without giving you something to warm your cockles." She fussed over a large pan on a stove and poured Gale a steaming mug of broth, pressing it into his cold and shivering hands. "Drink this. I will not allow you to leave until every last drop is gone."

Only after she had forced a second mug of the piping hot broth into Gale, did Mrs Stannard allow him to leave. She offered him the sound advice to keep his head down and not offend his mistress again, lest her punishments become even more brutal, then helped him back out into the bitter weather.

It was lucky that his horse was a particularly hardy and clever beast, and knew the way home without requiring guidance, for after just a few miles Gale began to become delirious with the cold. It was nearing eleven o'clock at night by the time Gale finally returned to Woodhay Manor, slumped over the neck of his great horse. Thom, one of the other servants, helped him down and brought him inside, and Gale wanted nothing more than to be able to retire to his bed for the night, for he was already terribly feverish, but Thom whispered to him, "The mistress told us you're to go straight to her on your return. Just… try not to displease her again."

Unable to stand on his own, Thom aided Gale upstairs into Mrs Mellark's favourite sitting room. Thom propped Gale up in the corner, and risked incurring Mrs Mellark's wrath upon himself by saying to her, "Ma'am, he is unwell. Perhaps I could wait on you this evening instead?"

"No, Thom," she replied, a wicked smile on her face. "No, I am quite taken with this young man. And all he needs is a little fresh air. Open the window before you go, would you?"

Out of her spite, she was determined to further punish Gale for his impudence. While all the other servants knew that he needed warmth and bed rest, Mrs Mellark insisted upon Gale staying awake all night, next to an open window, ready to wait upon her whenever she required it.

The servants were convinced that come morning they would discover Gale's dead body. However, what Mrs Mellark hadn't counted upon was that he was young and strong, while she was old and weak, and the punishment that she meted out upon him, she partially shared. In the morning, Mrs Mellark was discovered frozen to death, while Gale desperately clung on to life.

It was not one of the servants who discovered the body of the dead mistress, as well as the slumped and prone form of Gale Hawthorne. The youngest master of the house, Peeta Mellark, had returned.

Peeta Mellark was one of those rare breeds of men to whom everything came easily. No matter what he turned his hand to, he found that it was a success, and yet nothing he had tried captured his heart. He was nearly thirty and still had no idea what he would do with his life; he could easily have gone into the church, like his eldest brother, or become a soldier, like his other brother, yet neither field excited his soul. And so he remained a constant source of disappointment to his mother, being both unemployed and unmarried.

When he discovered his mother's dead body, he was sympathetic over the loss of life, as he would be for anyone, but found his overwhelming feeling was one of relief rather than sadness. One of his first questions was to Thom, asking about the young man who was found with his mother.

"Gale Hawthorne, sir. He hasn't been here long, and I'm sorry to say he rather upset the mistress."

"I see. And so, my mother, being who she was, felt vengeance to be the most sensible course of action?"

Thom stumbled over his words, torn between his desire to speak the truth of Mrs Mellark's terrible punishment, and his fear of speaking ill against her in front of her son. "You may speak freely, Thom," smiled Mr Mellark. "There is little love lost between my mother and I."

After hearing of what his mother forced Gale to endure, Mr Mellark insisted on nursing Gale back to health himself. He found himself rather taken with the bold, young servant, whom he liked to refer to as 'St George.' When asked why by the other servants, he shrugged and said very simply, "George slayed the dragon."

* * *

Katniss Everdeen's return to life was truly remarkable. She was not just alive once more— she was _living_ more than any other young lady her age. If there was music and dancing, Miss Everdeen would be present, leading every one of the dances.

Naturally enough, Mr Everdeen was very quick to sing the praises of the noble magician who had restored his daughter to life. And members of London society were very quick to try and befriend the magician, to try and gain a certain amount of influence over him. Haymitch advised his master to be careful against the influx of people wishing to share in his glory, but two men managed to convince Mr Heavensbee that their own influence was so great, and that their friendship would be utterly invaluable. Mr Seneca Crane was gifted with enough of a silver tongue that he was soon able to worm his way into Mr Heavensbee's company as a trusted confidante, while Mr James Cato came from one of the richest and oldest families in Highgate, and his opinion was valued by most of society, regardless of whether or not it was correct.

These two men were of a kind that had always refused to take honest work. But while Mr Cato had been born into a life of idle pleasures, Mr Crane had to work at it. He lived on his wits, borrowing from one man to pay another, leading other men into debt in return for a small percentage, profiting from the vice and ruination of others.

Very soon, Mr Heavensbee was inundated with requests from the government to aid them with magic. They had seen how successful Miss Everdeen's resurrection had been, and so naturally their first ideas were of a similar nature. Many great men in government debated back and forth over who the best person to bring back would be. Eventually it was settled that Mr Pitt the Younger, the greatest Prime Minister England had ever known, as well as Lord Nelson, would both be ideal candidates in the fight against Napoleon Bonaparte.

It was put to Mr Heavensbee that more resurrections had been requested by the government, and naturally enough, Mr Heavensbee paled terribly at the suggestion. He had not wished to employ a single fairy once, but the idea of re-employing them? It was far too dangerous! Imagine then his relief when he heard precisely which persons the government wished to restore to life! The degenerated states of the corpses provided him with the perfect excuse not to perform the magic that had been requested of him.

Mr Crane was, as always, the first to offer his opinion.

"My dear Mr Heavensbee," he began, "you cannot continue to turn down these requests! Your benevolence at restoring Miss Everdeen to life is, of course, well known, but you cannot be known for just one act!"

Mr Heavensbee, Mr Crane and Mr Cato were taking tea in Mr Heavensbee's drawing room. Haymitch observed the gentlemen from a shadowy corner in the room, an amused and ironic expression on his face as he listened to the three of them talk.

"Of course," continued Mr Crane, "I have been very quick to sing your praises to anyone who will care to listen, and to describe in great detail some of your past great feats of magic."

"Some of my past great feats?" said Mr Heavensbee incredulously. "Such as what, precisely?"

"Well," said Mr Crane, "of course I have been forced to embellish a few incidences. But you see, Mr Heavensbee, people want spectacle! They wish to hear of you riding into battle, your fairy servants at your side—"

"Fairy servants?" interrupted Mr Heavensbee, "Riding into battle? No, no, no, this will not do. It is precisely these romanticised and violent associations with magic that I wish to dispel!"

"Still," said Mr Cato in a bored voice, "you cannot expect to obtain glory by riding out the success of one single act." At this Mr Heavensbee opened his mouth, presumably to protest that actually he had given _two_ demonstrations, but before he could continue, Mr Cato began to speak again, in his same bored drawl. "Have you considered contacting the Navy? I have a very foolish cousin who signed his life away for the notion of England's glory, and I am forever receiving very tiresome letters about their troubles and difficulties. I am sure you could find a way to aid them."

Mr Heavensbee's eyes lit up. Here was a real opportunity. "Would we be able to borrow these letters? I should like to have Haymitch study them further. If we could understand the precise difficulties presented to the Navy, perhaps we could indeed aid them in their struggles."

Three weeks later, a young French officer woke up in the early hours of the morning and looked out to sea in the French Naval port of Brest. And his heart nearly stopped at what he saw. A hundred English battleships had set up a blockade around the port. It was normal to see maybe four or five ships, but a hundred! It was unheard of!

But this wasn't the only strange thing about the ships. They shone and sparkled in the sunlight, and some men swore that they had witnessed the ships rise up out of the Atlantic itself in the dead of night. They appeared to be made, not of wood, but of a shimmering grey metal.

Being a naturally superstitious people, the French feared that these were the ghosts of every English ship they had ever sunk, returned from Hell to seek vengeance, and so they watched and waited. Meanwhile, news began to reach them from other ports. Similar blockades had been set up all along the French coast. It appeared that more English ships were currently in French waters than could possibly have ever existed!

After eight days in which no French ship dared to sail out to greet the English, one particularly brave (or foolish!) sailor declared that he would take a small boat out to inspect the English ships. He was small enough that he could slip between the ships unnoticed and would die rather than spill France's secrets if captured.

As he neared the ships he noticed that they were not made of metal, as they originally appeared, nor were these ghost ships. The ships had been crafted from the sea itself and some were beginning to melt back into it. The French sailor had no idea who could have built the ships, but whoever he was, he was a clearly a master seasmith.

Not long after the ships were discovered to be made of the sea did they begin to collapse back into it. The English Navy were as overjoyed at the turn of events as the French were furious. For well over a week they had been able to sail unhindered, drop spies into port, and bring others home to report on their findings. It was a great morale boost for the English and a terrible blow to Bonaparte.

Back in London, Mr Heavensbee's name was shouted from the rooftops. Here was a second time that he was able to prove his usefulness, and this time without the aid of any wicked fairy-beings. This was the kind of magic he had come to London to show. This was practical, useful and above all _respectable_ magic.

In various publications, Mr Heavensbee's opinions on magic began to appear. He was exceptionally vocal in decrying the magicians of the past who had consorted with Otherworlders, almost as vocal as he was in decrying the fairies themselves. Most of all he spoke out against the Raven King, which surprised most people, all of whom had grown up listening to stories of the Raven King's incredible beauty and power.

Indeed, the only person who did not seem surprised at Mr Heavensbee's opinion was also his most famous subject. Miss Everdeen was almost as vocal about magic as Mr Heavensbee was. "Why!" she would say to anyone who cared to listen, "Mr Heavensbee knows more of magic than anyone else in the land. And if he says that the Raven King was a thoroughly un-English monster whose memory deserves to be forgotten, then who are we to question him?"

With his opinion becoming widely known about fairies, Mr Heavensbee set out on another of his tasks to make magic respectable; to rid London of the scourge of street-magicians.

Heavy handed law-enforcers were sent out to find the little booths littered about the streets where the false magicians sold pretend spells, fake amulets of protection and invented radical prophecies. Almost all reluctantly agreed to abandon the pretence of magicianship; after all, they could make just as much money as beggars and considerably more so as pick-pockets, and they didn't need to go to the extra effort of inventing these wild fantasies.

One street magician, however, refused to denounce his old ways. Marvel sat behind the filthy yellow curtain of his booth and risked a beating and a day in the stocks by declaring that he would not move on until he was granted an audience with the famous Mr Heavensbee.

Mr Heavensbee scorned to hear such a request, and Marvel's booth, from which he had sold his prophecies for over twenty years, was smashed to the ground.

One evening the winds blew bitterly hard against Mr Heavensbee's windowpanes, and as he studied a passage in_ A Faire Woode Withering,_ he thought he might like to take a cup or two of chocolate to warm his bones. He rang for Haymitch to attend him, but to no avail. He rang for one of his footmen to wait on him, but no one came. Just as Mr Heavensbee was about to rise from his studies he noticed a movement in the corner of his room. "Fetch me a pot of chocolate, would you?" he spoke to the moving figure.

The figure stepped into the light and Mr Heavensbee was filled with fear to see, not one of his servants, but a gaunt figure with a terrible aspect. He was all skin and bones, and much taller than average, and he wore upon his face an ironic smirk. "I have long waited to behold you, magician!" spoke the creature.

"Haymitch?" called Mr Heavensbee. "Haymitch, come now!"

"Two magicians will rise, one from the North and one from the South," said Marvel, for it was he.

"Oh, prophecies is it?" said Mr Heavensbee. "Well, you should know that I hold absolutely no stock in such mystical nonsense! Haymitch? Haymitch?"

"Do not turn your back on your true King, magician! He knows! All magic belongs to him, and he knows!"

"Prophecies _and _the Raven King! You will be sorry you ever saw fit to break in here, wretch! Haymitch!"

At that moment the door to Mr Heavensbee's library flew open, and framed in the portal was Haymitch, looking vaguely amused by the sight of Mr Heavensbee's fear. He was soon able to overpower Marvel, wrestling him out of the room, while all the time Marvel shouted to Mr Heavensbee not to ignore the importance of the Raven King.

Back and forth across the floor of his library paced Mr Heavensbee in nervous agitation until Haymitch returned to him.

"What do I employ you for if not to stop entry to those who mean me harm? What did he want? How did he get in? And why did you not come immediately when I rang for you? Or any of the other servants? Why should I not fire you immediately?"

Haymitch raised an eyebrow at his master. It was not the first time he had listened patiently to one of Mr Heavensbee's rants, and he was certain it would not be the last. Taking a deep breath, Haymitch spoke, his voice dripping with a sarcasm that eluded his master. "That man did you no harm other than stealing a meat pie, a wheel of cheese, and a bottle of claret. I think it pretty clear what he wanted: to tell you not to ignore the Raven King. He came in through the back door, forcing entry when only the maid was in the kitchen and unable to stop him. Neither myself or any of the other servants came immediately because he cut the lines that ring the bells for us." He shrugged. "As for a reason as to why you should not fire me, well…. It's up to you. But you should remember that no one else knows your business as well as I."

Mr Heavensbee chewed thoughtfully on the end of his fingernail for a moment or two. "This maid who allowed him entry, who is she?"

"Her name is Rue. She's been with us nearly three weeks."

"Tell her to seek employment elsewhere."

"Ah yes. Because, of course, any fifteen year old girl should be able to single-handedly fight a man nearly thrice her age and twice her height. I shall tell her to pack her bags tonight."

Seeing that his master was somewhat satisfied, Haymitch descended to the kitchen, where Rue was still greatly shaken from her encounter with Marvel. Instead of telling her she would be leaving Mr Heavensbee's employ, he sought out a bottle of Port from Mr Heavensbee's cellar, opened it, and shared a glass with the girl to soothe her nerves. There was no question in Haymitch's mind that she would continue to work here. What Mr Heavensbee didn't know wouldn't harm him.

He also decided it best not to tell his master that before his expulsion from Mr Heavensbee's London home, Marvel had told Haymitch that he would now be leaving London of his own volition, in order to seek out a second magician in order to tell him his fortune.

* * *

Cinna Black was highly unusual amongst the servants of the upper classes in London. Very few households would think to employ a Negro servant, and those that did would never elevate said servant to the highly important position of Butler. However, Cinna was highly respected in the Everdeen household, and his hard work and quiet, solicitous nature had garnered him a strong reputation amongst other households too.

Lately, he had heard whispers from some of the other servants that Miss Everdeen should have been allowed to die peacefully, that she was now a cursed and unnatural being. Even Madge, whom had attended on Miss Everdeen for many years, became fearful whenever she spent too much time in Miss Everdeen's rooms. She complained to Cinna that she could hear a sad and lonely bell tolling, as if from a great distance, and that it made her melancholy to hear it.

Although Cinna could hear no such bell, nor feel the sadness that its tolling brought, it appeared that Miss Everdeen could. In the weeks after her return to life, Miss Everdeen was as lively as he had ever seen her, but a fatigue began to overtake her. She soon began declining invitations to parties, complaining that she was forced to dance all night every night, and saw no reason to do it during the day as well. No one was able to explain Miss Everdeen's sudden aversion to dancing and music, which were both pastimes she had always loved. She began to forbid Primrose from playing the pianoforte whenever she was near. And slowly but surely, she began to slip from society until barely three months after her remarkable resurrection, only her dear friend Miss Annie Cresta would continue to visit her. Most of the time, when Miss Cresta paid her a visit, she would find Katniss seated alone, perfectly straight-backed, her hands folded neatly in her lap, staring wistfully out of the window.

Poor Annie would spend hours at a time in Miss Everdeen's company, telling her about the balls she had attended, and of course about her growing friendship with Mr Odair.

"My dear Katniss, he is such a charming gentleman. I do hope you will meet him again someday. Do you remember meeting him before? You were very much ill when he first came to visit. He has not yet made any promises to me, but I feel it may well only be a matter of time. My father is very much taken with him. Oh, and you will be very interested to hear this! He is a magician!"

At her words, Katniss' eyes widened in terror. "Annie, my dear, you cannot trust him! Magicians are all the same. Liars and scoundrels!"

"But surely you of all people cannot truly believe that!" declared Annie, resting her hand on top of Katniss'. "Why, you owe your very life to one from that noble profession!"

"I owe him naught but my misery," said Katniss, "and when I tell you what he has done, you too will surely understand!" She took a deep breath, as if steeling herself, and clutched tightly to Annie's hand. "In the village of Castella di Barti, there stands a beautiful church. The very foundations have been in place since the time of Caesar. The stones in the foundations were made when the tears of a beautiful virgin slave girl hit the bare earth, and as such, her sadness remained a part of the church itself. That sadness is, to this day, passed on to anyone who enters the church. As soon as one walks through the door, one finds oneself singing an ancient and sad song, and all who hear it are forever caught in its spell, and will never be able to speak again without being overcome by unbearable sadness. Anyone attending the sermons has to agree to have their ears cut off before entering, to prevent the curse from spreading!"

As soon as she finished speaking, a look of embarrassed horror passed over her face, and her head fell into her palms as she began to cry. "That was not what I intended to say," she wept. "I must try again." With another deep breath, Katniss began to speak. This time she recounted the tale of a feisty young milkmaid. Her cow had been missing for five days, and was eventually found underneath a rainbow. When the milk from this cow was drunk, it gave her the ability to hear the thoughts of a dashing farmhand that she had her eye on. But the farmhand was in love with a poor washerwoman from town. In a fit of jealousy, the milkmaid strangled the washerwoman and confessed her love to the farmhand. But in her absence, the farmhand had also drunk the cow's milk, and could hear her thoughts. In vengeance he killed the milkmaid, and the cow to be safe.

Once again, as soon as she had finished her strange tale, Katniss broke down in tears.

Cinna overheard this conversation and shook his head sadly, before heading back towards the kitchens. Once there, he could hear the tolling of a bell, as if from a great distance. It was not a bell he had heard before and could not have come from any of the nearby churches, and as such its origin puzzled him greatly. It could not be coming from any of the bells installed in the house. He looked up and the row of bells in the kitchen, and at the labels on each of them. _The Parisian Drawing Room, The Green Drawing Room, The Music Room, The Library, Mr Everdeen's Bed Chamber, Mr Everdeen's Dressing Room, Miss Everdeen's Bed Chamber, Miss Everdeen's Dressing Room, Miss Primrose's Bed Chamber, Miss Primrose's Dressing Room, Panem._

The bell labelled _Panem_ was the one ringing, and Cinna shook his head as if to try and disperse the sad sound. He stared at the label. _Panem? _It was not a room he could recall seeing before, and yet he was being summoned towards it. His instincts as a servant kicked in, and he left the kitchen to try and find this mysterious room. All of a sudden, he discovered that he did not recognise the corridor he was in. Instead of feeling concerned at this turn of events, he merely felt intrigue, and perhaps a little annoyance that Darius, the head gardener, had neglected his duties and allowed the trees to grow so close to the windows. This intrigued him further; there should have been no trees in the vicinity at all, but there they were, as clear as day.

The trees had an ancient, un-English look to them, as if not only did they not belong in the vicinity, but they did not belong in this time or land at all. Again, this did not concern him, and he felt merely intrigue at their strange appearance. After all, he thought, he did not belong in this land either, and yet here he was.

At the end of the corridor, a door was slightly ajar, and he could hear movement behind it. Curiosity at the appearance of this new area of the house got the better of him, and he pushed the door fully open.

Inside, a gentleman with snow-white hair was in a state of undress.

"Where have you been?" demanded the gentleman. "I have been here, summoning a servant for as long as I care to remember! Dress me!"

Cinna hurriedly stepped forward. This was not a guest he had seen in Mr Everdeen's home before, and he could not recall any instructions from Mr Everdeen that any guests would be staying, but it was not his place to question the appearance of the gentleman.

This was where Cinna felt most natural: helping gentlemen into their exquisite clothes, and this particular gentleman had, quite simply, the most beautiful clothes he had seen. The gentleman's shirt had been laundered to a gleaming, shining white, his black boots shone and reflected the ceiling above him, and his rich velvet coat was of the deepest blood red he had ever seen.

From the pocket of his velvet coat, the gentleman with the snow-white hair withdrew an unusual box. The box was decorated with a beautiful opal that was of a colour Cinna had never seen before. As he stared at this opal, he felt a curious tugging in his chest. Suddenly, he keenly felt the loss of his mother, who had died shortly after giving birth to him whilst being transported from their homeland in Africa. He felt the desperation of his fellow countrymen who were unlucky enough to be taken to America, where they would be forced into slavery. In short, the opal reminded him of all the heartbreak and sadness in the world, and in particular that which had been inflicted upon him.

Tearing his gaze away from the opal and turning his attention back to adjusting the gentleman's cravat, Cinna said, "That is a rather beautiful looking box, sir, if I may say so."

"It certainly is," replied the gentleman, "and it contains my most valuable treasure. Would you like to see?"

"If you would care to show me, I would be honoured."

The gentleman smiled and opened the box, and Cinna was momentarily shocked to see a lady's finger, perfectly preserved, nestled inside the box as if it were a brooch or necklace. He thought of Miss Everdeen, missing her smallest finger, and the sense of melancholy and heartbreak that surrounded her. But almost as soon as these thoughts entered his mind, they began to grow indistinct. Suddenly it seemed perfectly natural for the gentleman to be carrying a box the colour of heartbreak that contained a lady's finger. Surely this was nothing out of the ordinary, and a lady's severed finger was something all gentlemen carried?

"I can see why you treasure it so highly, sir," commented Cinna, as he brushed down the shoulders of the gentleman's coat.

"Oh!" exclaimed the gentleman once he was fully dressed, looking at himself and Cinna in the mirror, "but I had mistaken you for a servant! My humblest apologies!"

"You were not mistaken, sir. I am but a servant here."

"Pish and nonsense," said the gentleman, waving his hand dismissively. "Look." He gestured towards the mirror, and Cinna turned to see what the gentleman with snow-white hair could see. "What a fine pair we make. A man as beautiful and noble as you should never be a servant. You could be a prince. Why, maybe even a king!"

A strange trick of the light seemed to place a thin, golden diadem across Cinna's brow. He reached up to touch the crown and was almost surprised to find that it was not there. He turned away from the duplicitous reflection, back to the gentleman. "I truly am flattered, sir, but a man such as myself could never be a king. Least of all in this country."

"England has never known what is best for her. Look at who she has for a king now! An old, fat madman! Why, Cinna, if I were to present you to the people of England, and ask who they would prefer, they would be bound to choose you!"

Cinna could not remember ever having introduced himself by name and he marvelled at how the gentleman knew him. But one thing was for certain. "I fear you are mistaken, sir," he said. "If there is one thing I know about this country, it is that they would never accept a black-skinned man as their king."

"Oh, they will, my dear Cinna. It is simple enough. All you would need to do is kill their current king. Whoever kills a king is automatically his successor."

A terrible chill passed over the room at the gentleman's words. If Cinna were to be discovered discussing the murder of any white man, he would be sentenced to death without trial, but to be discussing treason? He feared the English would find a way to punish his soul for eternity. He looked in the mirror once again, and was disturbed to see that his reflection still wore a crown.

"Thank you for your kindness, sir," said Cinna, backing out of the room. "I must be returning to my duties."

"I will see you tonight, my dear Cinna," said the gentleman, smiling broadly. As Cinna bowed and took his leave, he was almost overcome with an otherworldly smell of blood and roses.

* * *

With no other occupation to take up his time, Peeta Mellark enjoyed taking Victor, his prized chestnut-coloured horse for long rides. Gale would take Flint, a dappled-grey, and load the saddle bags with heavy drawing paper and charcoals. If, on their rides, they came across a particularly pleasant or interesting panorama, they would stop so that Mr Mellark could sketch the view. This was a pastime that used to particularly irk Mr Mellark's late mother, and he felt that continuing to draw was a perfect way to honour her memory.

It was a sublime spring morning. The sun shone brightly in the pale blue sky, causing the frost that clung to the blossoms littering the branches of the trees and each individual blade of grass to sparkle like diamonds. The two men had stopped so that Mr Mellark might draw the village that lay nestled in a valley below them. Both men were beginning to feel the cold seeping into their bones when Mr Mellarkspotted a strange sight. Stumbling towards them, over the hard, frozen ground, was what looked like a bundle of rags that had sprouted legs.

"What do you suppose that could be, George?" asked Mr Mellark, pocketing the small piece of charcoal and pointing in the direction of the moving figure.

Whatever the ghastly apparition was, it seemed to be moving with real purpose towards them, and Gale felt a sense of cold dread as he watched. His hand found its way to resting on the handle of the blade he carried with him at all times. "Until we are certain, stay back, sir," he answered.

"I don't expect there will be any need for that," laughed Mr Mellark, although Gale was certain that he could detect just the slightest hint of nervousness in his words.

"As a child, I heard strange tales of demonic creatures roaming these hills. These black demons would lure lone travellers into bogs where they would be trapped and would never be seen again."

"Then let us be grateful that we are not alone."

As the figure approached, both men were able to make out that this was not a demon after all, but rather a strange-looking man. Tall and skeletal, the skin that was visible had a bizarre appearance, as if it were translucent and all his veins were visible underneath, shining blue. Marvel had found his quarry at last.

"I've been looking for you, magician!" he shouted as he approached. "You are not an easy man to track!"

Mr Mellark and Gale both turned on the spot, expecting to see this mysterious magician behind them, and were both a little surprised and confused to find themselves alone.

"Which of you is it?" said the ghastly-looking man as he came closer. His eyes darted back and forth between the two men as he waited for an answer.

"I think you must be mistaken," said Mr Mellark. "There is no magician here." He looked with pity at the creature, as a particularly bitter wind blew.

Marvel bowed low and said, "I am not mistaken." Standing up once more, he made a flourish and said, "I am known on the streets of London as The Great Marvel. Prophecies are my forte, and it is my destiny to tell the Southern Magician his."

Peeta dug deep into his pockets and withdrew a purse full of florins, tossing it towards the poor man. "Here," he said. "There is an inn in the village where you will be able to get a hot bath and some food. No man should be wandering these hills in this weather, dressed as you are. At the inn, tell them that Peeta Mellark sent you, and that he wishes for them to send for the cobbler and tailor to redress you."

A wide smile passed over the face of the piteous creature, and he bowed his head towards Mr Mellark, pocketing the coins as he did so. "I have waited my entire life to meet you, Mr Mellark. I have something for you." The wretch reached inside his own coat pocket. As he did so, Gale's hand tightened around the hilt of his knife, but there was no threat. From the ragged coat, an equally ragged scrap of paper was withdrawn and held out towards Mr Mellark.

Warily, he took the proffered piece of paper and unravelled it. Written in spiky, childish lettering were the words, _'A spel to see my enermees.' _Underneath this, in strange, broken English, were the instructions to fill a silver bowl with water, and a description of the hand gestures required to pass over it. "Is this a joke of some kind?" Mr Mellark asked, looking up from the paper.

"No," replied Marvel. "I have a message for you as well, magician. The day will come when you need to remember this." He pulled up the sleeve of his dirty overcoat, revealing the tattoos that covered his arms, and when he next spoke he appeared to be reading directly from his arm. "_Speak to the stones. Speak to the sky. Speak to the water. Speak to the trees. Speak and they will listen. Speak and they will answer._"

"I think you must be mistaken," said Mr Mellark. "I am no magician."

"Yes," replied Marvel, "you are." He spun on his heels and walked directly away from Mr Mellark and Gale, back towards the village.

Mr Mellark and Gale watched the strange man retreat for several minutes before either of them spoke.

"What do you suppose he possibly meant by that?" asked Gale, turning towards his master.

"I have no idea," replied Mr Mellark, still studying the strange scrap of paper. Folding it over twice, he secreted it away in his inner coat pocket. Suddenly the winter sun appeared to exude even less warmth than it had previously, and a shiver passed over the back of his neck. "Let us get back home," he said, looking around at the glittering landscape. "Outdoors has suddenly lost its appeal."

The vagabond's strange words repeated over and over in his mind, and he mounted his steed and rode hard, as if speed could somehow distance him from the ominous divination.

In his drawing room, Mr Mellark paced back and forth. Over and over again he read the scrap of paper, shaking his head at the ridiculous notion. Everyone knew that magic no longer worked. He had heard rumours of a gentleman from Yorkshire who had travelled to London who claimed that he could make ancient spells work, but personally he thought these rumours were very much exaggerated.

"Gale," he called out, and immediately his servant knew that this request was bound to be serious if Peeta was using his Christian name. "Gale, fetch me a silver bowl and a jug of water."

"You aren't serious, sir?" remarked Gale. "You can't possibly think it will work?"

"I believe there is only one way to know for certain," he responded, before he resumed his agitated pacing.

When Gale returned with the bowl and water, Peeta instructed him to set them down on the sideboard. He half-filled the bowl with water and studied the instructions once again before passing his hand over the surface of the water three times.

Lights glittered and flickered and moved over the surface of the water, giving it the impression of a burning piece of paper, and when the surface had stopped mimicking fire it no longer appeared to be reflecting the room they were standing in. Both Mr Mellark and Gale gaped at the bowl of water. The room in the water was well proportioned and lined with books. A middle-aged man was hunched double, his face hidden and his nose inches from the page of a book, while a candle beside him burnt low.

"Who is he?" asked Gale

"I haven't the foggiest of ideas," replied Mr Mellark, shaking his head and looking at the piece of paper with the scribbled spell once more. "According to this, he is my enemy, but I have never before seen him. How can a man I have never met be my enemy? And besides, I am not in the habit of collecting enemies. Perhaps I did something incorrectly?"

"Well, sir, whether or not you did it incorrectly, you did magic. I am impressed, and I don't say that lightly!"

"True, George, true. Perhaps I have found my calling at last. It is a shame the dragon is no longer here to witness this!"


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N Thanks to all following/favouriting and reviewing. **

**And thanks to Court81981 for being the world's best beta, and to the wonderful streetlightlove1 for pre-reading. **

**Also, if you didn't know, streetlightlove1 is organising s2sl - which is raising money for research into pediatric cancers. Check it out on tumblr, donate and get some incredible smut-laden stories from some of the best writers this fandom has to offer. Oh, and something from me too.**

* * *

Once a notion lodged itself into Peeta Mellark's heart and mind, it was difficult for him to think on anything else. Since he had conjured up the vision of the unknown man in the bowl of water, he had gained a thirst for magical knowledge that could not be satiated. He sent messages to every bookseller he could think of, requesting any and all magical texts.

And yet he appeared to be thwarted at each and every turn. With each request sent to booksellers and publishers to sell anything even vaguely magical to Mr Mellark of Woodhay Manor, the same reply was returned: the seller or publisher would send their kind regards to Mr Mellark to thank him for his patronage, but that they regretted they could not assist him on this occasion. All their books related to the magical arts had been bought by another gentleman. A message would be sent back in return by Mr Mellark, asking the name of this esteemed gentleman. And the same reply would come back to him each time: the books had been purchased by the famous London magician, Mr Heavensbee.

Frustration at every corner! And yet… there were times when Mr Mellark began to wonder if his quest for books was even necessary. Sometimes he would close his eyes, and a prompting from the darkness would appear to whisper to him. He would open his eyes and follow the strange barely audible instructions, turning a wooden humidor into crystal, causing dandelions to shoot up between the floorboards, and on one occasion, making a fine china tea-set dance across the kitchen table. But this natural talent was not enough for him. He needed understanding.

"These parlour tricks are all well and good," he sighed to Gale. "And perhaps they could delight impressionable young women, but what _use _are they?"

"If I may be so bold, sir, many people would say that delighting impressionable young women is a very useful skill."

"Very true, George," he laughed, "but I would hope that my skills would amount to more than that." He sat down heavily, while Gale poured him a cup of tea, and picked up the periodical that had been delivered that morning. The headline on _The Times _read '_FRENCH NAVY CONFOUNDED ONCE AGAIN THANKS TO ENGLISH MAGICIAN.'_ Mr Mellark's heart pounded in his chest, as if trying to escape its earthly confines. He continued to read, '_All English citizens must extend their warmest thanks to Mr Heavensbee for his continued efforts in the war. The revival of English magic gives each and every one of us hope for the future, as the war finally turns in Britannia's favour.'_

"Gale," said Mr Mellark, putting the paper down and turning in seriousness towards his manservant. "How would you feel about leaving Sussex behind in favour of London?"

A frown crossed Gale's brow. "If you choose to go, of course I will aid you. But personally I have never liked the capital."

"And why is that?"

"The people are disingenuous, sir. They waste their time on frivolities, while sending young men from other counties off to die in this war." Gale began to pace back and forth, forgetting his manners, his voice becoming more and more heated. "When did you last hear of young London men having the king's shilling forced upon them? While others are sent to die, they drink and dance and gamble and—"

"Gale," interrupted Mr Mellark, his tone kindly, "have you lost someone close to you?"

Gale turned away from his master and took a deep breath before speaking. "My younger brother, sir. He was accosted in a tavern. He was made drunk and took the shilling without considering the consequences. I understand that he was shot in the head during a skirmish in Switzerland."

Mr Mellark spoke into the terse silence that followed. "You have my deepest sympathies. My older brother is a soldier, and not a day goes past when I don't expect to receive a letter informing me of his death. But, you see, this is precisely why I feel I should go to London. If I can help stop this war, if somehow my talents can be used to save brothers, fathers, uncles and sons from a needless death, then I must go." He held up the periodical so that Gale could see the article on the other magician. "This man could teach me to hone these skills into something useful. He has all the books I could study and learn from."

"You are set on leaving then?"

Mellark closed his eyes momentarily, took a deep breath, and picked up his cup of tea. He tapped it once on the side, causing ripples to spread across the surface, and once they subsided, the liquid within had become a much darker, richer brown. The cup now contained coffee. He tapped it again, and the liquid turned thicker and creamier. One more tap and the chocolate turned back into golden-brown tea. He shook his head at the futility of such tricks and placed the cup back down again. "Really," he sighed, "I don't see that I have much of a choice."

* * *

Katniss Everdeen's condition appeared to be worsening day by day. The physician who had cared for her while she suffered from consumption, Dr Aurelius, was summoned once again. But despite all his examinations, the only physical ailment he could find was a chill to her skin.

"Mr Everdeen," he said, taking Miss Everdeen's father to one side, "this seems to me to be more of a spiritual affliction than a physical malady. Really, she is in perfect health."

"But how can she be in perfect health? She never moves from that window seat. She never initiates conversation and only speaks if prompted. She has an aversion to music, dancing, and society that she never had before. She is listless and saddened by every single suggestion—"

"Mr Everdeen, in my work I encounter many young women. They are frivolous creatures and can be very irrational. The cause of her distress may be something very simple that you or I would overlook. Perhaps the young lady had her heart set on a particular dress or bonnet. Perhaps she asked you for it and was denied. That being, would it not be better to simply to buy her the item she wants?"

Mr Everdeen fought hard to keep the anger from his voice. "My daughter is not one to give up on life purely because she has not been bought a dress! If you believe that of her, you clearly think very low of her, sir!"

"Of course," backtracked Dr Aurelius. "Please accept my apologies. But I will stand by my prognosis. Her affliction is not physical. Perhaps you would do well to consult a priest?"

Mr Everdeen held modern—and quite radical—views on religion and muttered that he would certainly consider it an option before he dismissed the good doctor. With sadness in his eyes, he looked towards the window seat where his younger daughter and Miss Cresta were talking to Miss Everdeen in the hopes of sparking some warmth in her.

"My dear heart," Miss Primrose began, "it pains me so to see you this way. Will you not take a walk with me?"

"Why should I want to walk?" sighed Miss Everdeen. "I will be kept on my feet all night. Allow me at least this time to rest!"

"Are you quite sure I could not play for you? Your smile would light up the room whenever I played before."

"No! Music is detestable! I wonder what enjoyment I ever gained from such pastimes, for it certainly gives me no pleasure now!"

Miss Primrose turned and dried her eyes on the corner of a silk handkerchief, while Miss Cresta took Miss Everdeen's hands into her own. "Would you take some tea? Or some chocolate perhaps? You are so bitterly cold to the touch, and it pains me to see you so uncomfortable."

"What is the point? Whatever comforts I am provided with now will not prevent me dancing all night, nor taking part in these dreary, endless processions, nor having to watch the terrible and violent spectacles provided for us."

"You have been having night terrors, then?"

"If only they were," lamented Miss Everdeen, "for then I would merely have to wake up." She took a deep breath and reached out towards her sister and friend, clutching their hands in her own. "I shall try again to tell you what has happened, although I am afraid that it will do no good. In the heart of Africa there dwells a tribe that have such skills at cloth making that they are able to weave the sun itself into the fabrics they make. The patterns in the cloth glow and radiate warmth and…. No! This is not right! Let me try again. Many people are unaware that the tree of knowledge, originally found in Eden and responsible for the fall of man, exists today. It still bears fruit as red as rubies and as sweet as nectar, and a single bite has the power to….." She stopped speaking abruptly, horror at her own words written all over her face. "I cannot speak. He will not allow me!"

"Who, dear heart? Who will not allow you?"

Miss Everdeen looked over Miss Primrose's shoulder. "Him."

With a start, Miss Primrose turned around, and Miss Cresta shot a glance in the direction that Miss Everdeen was pointing. But there was no one there. Miss Everdeen's head fell into her hands and she began to weep in earnest.

Mr Everdeen stormed away from the sight of his daughter's distress and into the drawing room, where Mr Odair and Sir Adam Cresta were awaiting him.

"There is no improvement," he bemoaned. "Dr Aurelius claims that there is nothing wrong with her, and yet there it is for all the world to see. She has already suffered more than most, and I cannot bear to see her so in pain! Give me an occupation so that I may help her!"

Mr Odair looked up from the book he was reading and said slowly and thoughtfully, "Mr Everdeen, I have been thinking… perhaps Miss Everdeen is beyond the reach of medicine, beyond even the reach of the church. She owes her life to magic. Perhaps magic, therefore, is the only cure for her. Have you thought to send for Mr Heavensbee?"

"Do you believe he could help? Have you come across incidences such as this in your studies?"

"I regret to say, sir, that I have not. But I am a poor scholar with no materials. Mr Heavensbee on the other hand… if anyone is to know whether Miss Everdeen's malaise has a magical cause, it will be Mr Heavensbee."

It seemed such an obvious answer to the problem that almost everyone wondered why they had not thought of the magician immediately. The truth was that Mr Everdeen was not entirely sure that he liked magic, being that he was a man of science and reason, but he knew that he certainly did not like Mr Heavensbee. Despite the fact that his daughter owed Mr Heavensbee her life, Mr Everdeen could not bring himself to like the man. He found the magician to be officious, unhelpful and rather arrogant. He knew, however, that his was not in the least a popular opinion in government, given that every week Mr Heavensbee successfully cast some new miracle to aid the Navy. And so he had learned to keep his opinions to himself.

Mr Odair was quite correct however: Miss Everdeen's affliction was more likely to be related to magic than anything else. If Mr Heavensbee could just tweak the spell he used to bring her back, perhaps her spirits would once again be lifted. That very day, Mr Heavensbee was summoned once again, but he did not have good news for Mr Everdeen.

"I assure you, sir," he said, "that whatever is causing Miss Everdeen's melancholy, its root cause is not magical. Indeed, even suggesting as such is a form of heresy. Of course, this particular law has fallen by the wayside. However, there was a time that inferring that a person who had been cured by magical means was no longer subject to God's law was a severe crime. This was known as the Meraudian Heresy and was punishable by death!"

And so Miss Everdeen was left to her bitter sadness. No one in the Everdeen household appeared to notice, however, that the same terrible listlessness that surrounded Miss Everdeen was also afflicting the servant, Cinna. What was classed as an illness in Miss Everdeen was attributed to mere low spirits in Cinna. No one ever considered that their maladies were linked.

Back in his rooms in Hanover Square, Mr Heavensbee locked himself away in his library, sending Haymitch away. When he was certain that he was quite alone and could not be overheard, he muttered an ancient name under his breath. Immediately there was a strange shift in reality, as if a second, unseen world occupied the same space as the first.

"I am pleased to see that you have changed you mind about working with me," said the gentleman with snow-white hair.

"Nothing has changed," snapped Mr Heavensbee, "and with your trickery, you could have undone everything I have worked for!"

As before, when the gentleman angered, the temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. Where before the room was temperate and comfortable, now Mr Heavensbee was able to see the fog of his own breath hanging in the air before him. "My trickery?" laughed the gentleman coldly. "_My trickery_? I have done nothing but what was asked of me!"

"When you said you would take half her life, I thought you meant half of her remaining years! I did not think you were condemning her to this….this…._mockery_ of an existence! Restore her at once!"

"I have taken nothing that was not rightfully promised to me! Although perhaps I could restore her if you meet my original price. Tell the world your power comes from me."

"Never! Your price is too high!"

"Then it is you that condemns her. Not me."

Mr Heavensbee closed his eyes as the room around him appeared to swim. He had worked hard to get to this position, but if his duplicity in using a fairy was ever discovered, it would undo everything. And yet…. The girl herself seemed unable to speak of her enchantment. Perhaps it would be best if she were not restored after all. As long as no one suspected Mr Heavensbee of deceit, what was the harm? "What is the fate of one girl compared to the restoration of magic?" muttered Mr Heavensbee to himself, before turning to the gentleman with snow-white hair. "Be gone, demon."

The temperature dropped even further as the gentleman slowly faded into invisibility. As he did so, the glass in Mr Heavensbee's ornate mirror cracked before the whole thing shattered outwards, showering him in tiny fragments. Mr Heavensbee had just enough time to cast a spell of protection over himself to prevent any injury, but he was left shaken and terrified. He ordered Haymitch to bring him brandy and gave him explicit instructions to not disturb him for the rest of the evening. Calming his nerves was not an easy task, and every time Mr Heavensbee caught his reflection in a pane of glass, his gave a nervous start, convinced that the gentleman with snow-white hair was behind him, invisible, but present nonetheless.

* * *

Finnick Odair could not understand Miss Everdeen's affliction. For a few short weeks after her resurrection, she had been the life and soul of every party, a promising future ahead of her but now…. As the months progressed it became clear that the cold, young woman who stared blankly out of the window and sat all day at her window-seat would be unlikely to ever find a happy marriage, destined forever to a life of solitude.

And seeing her dearest friend in a state of such deep melancholy left Miss Cresta with a kind of second-hand sadness, and this was breaking Mr Odair's heart. He decided to take a walk in Hyde Park to try and clear his mind.

Suddenly Mr Odair was overcome by a strange sense of magic happening, as if a second world was occupying the space of the visible world around him. He had experienced a similar feeling on the same day he had witnessed the birds speaking in York. At the same time he became overcome with tiredness. The sun was beating down upon him, and he could hear the buzzing of bees as they set about their endless work. Hoping this warm tranquillity was the sole cause of his lethargy, he shook his head to try and clear it, and the tiredness became even more pronounced. An elm tree was nearby, and Mr Odair put his hand out to steady himself. He did not think he would be able to stay upright much longer, and he sank to his feet, leaning back against the elm. Within seconds, he had fallen into a deep, deep sleep.

Immediately, Mr Odair began to dream a most vivid dream. He found himself in a long, darkened hallway of an unknown and decaying castle. The walls were covered with banners and tapestries that may once have been vibrant and beautiful, but had become dust-coated and moth-eaten. Somewhere nearby, in an adjacent room, he could hear a solitary viol and pipe playing the saddest music he had ever heard. It brought to mind the heartbreak of a thousand jilted lovers, the pain of a mother outliving her child, the loneliness of a wife losing her husband in the war.

Mr Odair wandered down the empty corridor, unsure if he wished to find an entrance to the room where the music was playing or not. He may have been walking for a few seconds, or for a few millennia, when he finally came across a huge, oak door. With a deep breath, Mr Odair gently pushed the door open a few inches.

The room was filled to bursting with a collection of the strangest people Mr Odair had ever seen, each of them dancing to the bitter, melancholy music. One woman appeared to be wearing a dress woven from spider-webs that had caught the morning dew, shimmering and sparkling with each movement. He was certain that he could even see one or two spiders still living in their web-homes. The coat of one gentleman was, at first glance, as black as night, but as Mr Odair looked deeper into it, he could swear that he saw the stars moving within the folds of the fabric.

At the very centre of the dance was a familiar-looking, beautiful young maiden. She was wearing a dress of flames, which licked and flickered over her skin as her sinewy figure spun round and around. Mr Odair opened the door a little wider, hoping to get a better look at this intriguing figure, when a dancer nearer to him caught his eye. A strikingly handsome, dark-skinned man was dancing with a partner wearing a dress woven from the sea during a storm. The dancer looked up from his partner and an expression of panicked recognition passed over his face before the steps of the dance swept him away again. This feeling echoed in Mr Odair, for he knew this man. It was Cinna, Mr Everdeen's butler. Strange that Mr Odair should be dreaming of him!

Mr Odair was as fond as any other young man of dancing, and suddenly the sad music seemed to change—it spoke to him directly. There! That trilling phrase perfectly described his initial joy at being accepted into District 12, and that run of notes surely described his excitement at discovering that practical magic was real! He closed his eyes and allowed the music to wash over him, as each chord and phrase, each individual note reminded him of a moment in his life.

He felt his body begin to sway in time with the music and looked around for a free partner, but the only person dancing alone appeared to be the girl on fire in the centre of the room. He was just contemplating trying to make his way through the dancing crowd towards the lone girl when a voice at his side caught his attention. "Who are you?" demanded this voice.

Mr Odair turned and found that he was not alone in this corridor. To his side was a handsome young man of about his own age. His blond curls looked rather tousled, as if he had only just woken up and had not yet performed his morning toilet, and his blue eyes glittered even in the dark candlelight.

Mr Odair gaped at the sudden appearance of this man. He shook his head and all of a sudden the music, which moments before spoke directly to him, sounded as hollow and melancholy as ever. He turned away from the dancers and was about to answer the other man's question, when the other gentleman asked again. "I repeat, who are you?"

"My name is Odair, and—"

"You are not the one I summoned. What are you doing here?"

Mr Odair felt a little slighted that his own subconscious would speak to him so rudely, particularly when he had been so polite and charming himself. "Dreaming," he answered shortly, before turning back to watch the dancing.

The other man pulled the door closed and leant in closer towards Mr Odair. "No," he answered. "This is _my_ dream. What are you doing in it? Answer me!"

All Mr Odair could see at that moment were those bright blue eyes, leaning in closer and closer. They filled his vision; he was surrounded by bright blue, he was drowning in it…

With a deep gasp, Mr Odair opened his eyes. He was back in Hyde Park. The sun's warming rays were a far cry from the cold stone walls of the desolate castle, and the sounds of bees buzzing and birds singing were joyous to hear, particularly in comparison to the sad sound of the viol and pipe.

He looked around at the park surrounding him. The world seemed back to normal. Mr Odair was convinced that some kind of magic had just taken place, and that whatever it was, was now ended.

His fatigue left him as fast as it had hit him, and within moments he climbed to his feet, brushed down his trousers, straightened his lapels, and continued on his walk. His mind tried to remember the details of the dream, so that he might look up any symbolism as soon as he got the chance, but the only thing he was able to recall with any real clarity were the blue eyes of the young gentleman who had stood near him.

As he continued on his walk, he heard a raised voice that sounded strangely familiar. "He eludes me even in dreams, Gale! And who was the other gentleman? There should be a law forbidding men to enter the dreams of others unasked!"

Naturally, Mr Odair's curiosity was piqued and he followed the sound of the familiar voice. Imagine his surprise when he saw, under the shade of a willow tree, the very same gentleman whom he had met moments before in his dream! No sooner had Mr Odair noticed the striking blond hair and startlingly blue eyes of Peeta Mellark did that other man look up. He goggled at Mr Odair, before striding over towards him. "You there! What did you mean by it?"

"What did I mean by—"

"By trespassing in my dream! I was attempting to summon the London magician! He has not responded to a single one of my written requests to meet him. I was hoping he would respond to a more practical request."

"You are a practical magician?" asked Mr Odair. His mind raced back to several months earlier, to his strange and ominous meeting with Marvel, the street magician.

"Yes," replied Mr Mellark, looking confused. "Really, what other kind is there?"

"I would class myself as a theoretical magician. But this is incredible!" said Mr Odair. "That was _your_ dream, you say? And you summoned me into it? Which spell did you use? Ormskirk? Hether-Grey?"

Something in Mr Mellark's expression softened slightly, and he threw his arms up in a gesture of mock-defeat. "I have not the least idea."

"So you have not studied?"

"Ha! If only I could, I might better understand what I'm doing! Every single bookseller tells me that their magical texts have already been sold to another gentleman."

"And I daresay I could make a guess as to who that particular gentleman is," said Mr Odair.

"But you are a theoretical magician! You must have access to texts of your own!"

"Very little I am afraid," sighed Mr Odair. "Before Mr Heavensbee launched his vendetta against all others claiming the title of magician, I found myself in a similar position to yourself. I contacted any booksellers and publishers with much the same intention, only to find that the choicest titles had already been taken. I found that most of what Mr Heavensbee left behind was fit only for use as a fire-lighter."

"But you still bought those books, yes? You have access to them?"

"I bought everything I could afford, yes."

A wide smile spread across Mr Mellark's face. "Then you, my friend, have just found your biggest admirer. I insist on you joining me for dinner tonight."

* * *

"It would appear that you have a rival."

These words fell from the mouth of Mr Crane, who was currently leaning over the billiards table in Hanover Square. Mr Heavensbee's head snapped up sharply to look over at Mr Crane. A kind of panic set into his heart. A rival? Impossible! No one else had dedicated themselves to study as fully as he had. Surely no one else could have possibly achieved anything close to the feats that he had? No. It was surely an impossibility. It was his name that was shouted from the rooftops. It was he who was the hero of the war effort. And besides, he had purchased every book of magic that he knew of. But still… what if there was another? Mr Heavensbee was unsure of how this prospect made him feel.

"And who is this rival?" replied Mr Cato, leaning back in his armchair as he watched Mr Crane take the shot.

"Have you heard of Peeta Mellark?"

"Of Woodhay Manor in Sussex? Seven thousand pounds a year? Thirty years old and still without occupation?"

"The very same."

Mr Heavensbee let out a small sigh of relief. This Mr Mellark sounded of a similar type to Mr Cato. A young gentleman of leisure. Indeed, it was far more likely that Mr Crane's comment was actually directed towards Mr Cato. Perhaps this Mellark was a rival in a love affair or in a business deal? The more he thought on this, the more this conclusion seemed ever more likely.

"Although," continued Mr Crane, "He is not without occupation any longer. As I understand it, Mr Mellark is claiming to be quite adept at magic. He has come to London. Presumably to aid Mr Heavensbee."

"Or possibly to challenge him."

Mr Heavensbee stood up very suddenly, making the two gentlemen at the billiards table start. He immediately rang for Haymitch and refused to speak to either Mr Cato or Mr Crane until he had spoken with his servant.

After a few minutes, Haymitch appeared, looking much at ease and vaguely amused by the sight of Heavensbee's discomfort. He crossed his arms and leant back against the doorframe, waiting for his master to cease his pacing.

"Who is Peeta Mellark?"

"I cannot say I know the gentleman personally, but—"

"You have heard of him?"

"We have received correspondence from him, yes."

"Saying what?"

Haymitch raised an eyebrow before answering. "He claims to be a practical magician."

The effect this statement had on Mr Heavensbee was rather startling. His eyebrows flew so high that they practically disappeared under his wig, and it was most fortunate that he was adjacent to an armchair, as his legs gave way underneath him.

"Strange that you would hire a man to keep watch over your business, and yet he would fail to give you information as important as this," said Mr Cato. "I would have my servants beaten for less."

Haymitch narrowed his eyes towards Mr Cato and opened his mouth, presumably with a sarcastic retort. It was lucky that Mr Heavensbee spoke first. "Why did you not tell me this before?"

Turning back to his master, he replied, "For the same reason I have not told you about the hundred other letters I have received from various persons claiming to be practical magicians and wanting your guidance. You told me it is an impossibility for there to be others."

"It is!"

"Then why should you wish me to disturb you with news that you would not believe?"

Mr Heavensbee chewed thoughtfully on the end of his finger for a moment. Haymitch, as always, spoke sense. And yet… the memory of Marvel breaking into his home and telling him about the other magician swam at the front of his mind. The other magician who was supposedly a Southerner. Peeta Mellark, a gentleman from Sussex who was claiming to be able to do magic….

He shook his head. No, he had been right. It was an absolute impossibility. If there was a great library at Woodhay Manor, he would have heard about it. There was no one from whom this Mr Mellark could learn, and he certainly could not have amassed a hoard of his own books. However, he could not help but wonder if there was a chance that Mr Mellark had managed to learn something. Still feeling a little ill at ease, he ordered Haymitch to fetch him a glass of wine to steady his nerves. As Mr Crane and Mr Cato continued their game, he picked up a nearby book, a biography of the life of Martin Pale, and attempted to read. Any astute observers would note that Mr Heavensbee's eyes were not moving over the page, and the slight frown creasing his brow indicated that his mind was most certainly elsewhere.

* * *

Three weeks after arriving in London, Peeta Mellark was still no closer to speaking to the elusive Mr Heavensbee. After talking at length with Mr Odair, Mr Mellark decided that direct action was his best course. Mr Odair tried repeatedly to warn him about Mr Heavensbee's attitude towards other magicians, but Mr Mellark dismissed these warnings. After all, he was not a charlatan like the street magicians; he was an equal, and therefore surely Mr Heavensbee would treat him as such.

With Gale's help, he dressed in his best clothes, hoping to make a good and lasting impression. It was only a short walk from the apartment that Mr Mellark had taken in Soho Square to Mr Heavensbee's rooms in Hanover Square, but Mr Mellark felt that arriving by carriage would hold him in better stead, and as such he requested Gale to leave early and find him one to hire.

At a little after eleven o'clock, on a crisp spring morning, Mr Mellark stood on the threshold to the house in Hanover Square for the very first time. His insistent knock was answered by a scruffy, surly-looking man who spoke in a heavy Yorkshire accent.

"Can I help you?" said Haymitch, impatiently.

"I'm looking for the magician of Hanover Square," replied Mr Mellark.

"And is the magician of Hanover Square expecting you?"

"No, not exactly—" said Mr Mellark, as Haymitch began to close the door on him. He stuck his boot in the door frame, preventing Haymitch from shutting him out. "—but I believe he would want to see me."

"Really? And what exactly makes you believe that?"

Mr Mellark closed his eyes for a moment and rested his hand against the cool brick exterior. When he opened his eyes, he focused on a small shoot of ivy that was beginning to creep up the wall. As he concentrated on the shoot, it began to grow upwards, twisting like the sinews of a snake as it latched on to the wall.

If Haymitch was surprised by the turn of events, he kept his surprise well hidden. "I think you had better come in," he said.

Gale agreed to wait outside with the carriage, while Mr Mellark entered the house at Hanover Square for the very first time. He followed Haymitch through to a fine-looking drawing room and took a seat when invited. "I shall inform Mr Heavensbee of your arrival. Who should I tell him is waiting upon him?"

"My name is Mellark. Peeta Mellark. I have written to Mr Heavensbee previously."

"Indeed?" replied Haymitch, one eyebrow raised. "I shall go and inform Mr Heavensbee of your arrival." With a nod of his head, Haymitch indicated a fine crystal decanter on a sideboard. "Help yourself to refreshments."

A nervousness began to consume Mr Mellark, as he felt that his entire future career may well depend upon this meeting. As the minutes began to drag on, the crystal decanter began to look more and more appealing, until he stood up and poured himself a measure, purely for something to do.

The whisky was a little warm for his palate, and he felt the usual strange prompting, a half-whispered instruction. Closing his eyes for a moment, Mr Mellark took a deep breath and swirled the contents of the crystal tumbler three times, concentrating hard on the whirlpool created in the middle. As he stopped moving the glass, and the contents became still, he noticed with a satisfied smile that an ice-cube had formed from nowhere.

He looked up to notice that he was being observed by Haymitch, who once again did not betray any form of surprise. "This way," said the scruffy-looking servant.

Mr Mellark knocked back the drink in order to steady his nerves, then followed Haymitch up two narrow sets of stairs, and he found himself cursing the London architectural habit of building upwards rather than outwards. At last he was led into a modern-looking drawing room where three men, one middle-aged and two closer to his own age, were in conversation. He had seen caricatures in various papers of Mr Heavensbee that showed him as a fussy, middle-aged gentleman, and so he assumed that the older man was his quarry, although his appearance seemed rather at odds with his current surroundings. Indeed, the two younger men were far more fashionably dressed and appeared more relaxed and at home than the magician, who was eyeing him warily.

Haymitch made the introductions, and Mr Mellark stepped forward to shake Mr Heavensbee's hand. "It is an honour to meet you, sir. Your feats are, of course, known throughout the kingdom."

"And I'm sorry to say your reputation also precedes you," said one of the younger men.

"That's enough, Mr Cato," said Mr Heavensbee warningly.

"My reputation, sir?"

"I think what Mr Cato is trying to say," interrupted Haymitch before Mr Cato could speak again, "is that the name Mellark is well known in society. Your wealth is known, but we were unaware you had applied yourself to a particular career."

Mr Mellark turned his gaze back towards Mr Heavensbee. "And that is precisely why I have come to seek you out, sir. I feel that alone there is only so much that I am able to accomplish. Perhaps with your help, I will be able to achieve so much more."

"And what, precisely, have you achieved so far?" asked Mr Cato.

Before Mr Mellark was able to answer, Mr Crane spoke out. "Perhaps you would do us the honour of showing us your talents? I am so very fond of seeing magic performed."

"Very well," replied Mr Mellark. He looked around the drawing room for inspiration, well aware of the four pairs of eyes burning into him. A sideboard stood in front of a mirror, and on the side board stood an assortment of items; a vase containing an array of hothouse flowers, another crystal decanter filled with brandy, a statuette of Lady Britannia. Mr Mellark walked up to the sideboard and placed his hands upon it, staring into the depths of the mirror.

He concentrated hard upon the mirror, gripping the edges of the sideboard, and at long last let out a breath that he had been holding. Nothing happened. Mr Crane and Mr Cato, who were used to seeing spectacular feats performed almost daily by Mr Heavensbee, smirked and made comments to the effect that it had been a good jape, but that Mr Mellark must have known he could not have lied forever. Meanwhile, however, Mr Heavensbee had rushed over to Mr Mellark's side.

"But this is extraordinary!" he proclaimed. "I did not know such a thing was even possible! How did you…?"

"I do not know," sighed Mr Mellark. "It is almost like trying navigate in the dead of night. One can see the pathway just a few inches ahead, but not the entire journey. I am never entirely sure where I will end up."

Mr Heavensbee clasped his hands together in delight, although both Mr Cato and Mr Crane were still unsure as to exactly what had just transpired. "What exactly—" began Mr Crane.

"Try and pick something up!" exclaimed Mr Heavensbee, indicating the items on the sideboard. He stood aside to allow Mr Crane access and gave another delighted clap when Mr Crane's hand passed straight through the crystal decanter.

"What has happened to it?" asked Mr Crane.

"The decanter and the reflection. They have exchanged places!"

"I am sorry to say that I have not the least idea how to get your original items back," said Mr Mellark apologetically.

"How incredibly useful," said Mr Cato in his usual sarcastic drawl. "Just when a thirst was coming over me, as well."

"Well, it seems clear to me what must be done next!" said Mr Heavensbee. "You must apply yourself to study!"

"Nothing would please me more," answered Mr Mellark. "But sadly, studying is not something I have been able to indulge in as yet. No booksellers appear to have any books to sell me." His words were light but he hoped the meaning was clear.

From the corner of the room, where Haymitch was quietly observing, Mr Mellark was certain he heard just a hint of a snort of laughter.

Mr Heavensbee clearly understood his meaning. He worried at his bottom lip and appeared to be fighting a very clear internal struggle. "I have books," he said at last.

"Mr Heavensbee," said Mr Cato in a serious tone, "a word, please?" He led Mr Heavensbee out into the hallway, out of earshot of the others and whispered urgently. "You yourself are always saying that others are not worthy to study magic. What makes this one so special?"

"Others are not worthy because they clearly do nothing with the knowledge given to them. He has talent! I have never seen anyone else able to do magic, and this is without a day's study! With proper guidance, he could be one of the greatest magicians ever!"

"He could be a threat to you," said Mr Cato, secretly thinking about the influence that he and Mr Crane had gained over Mr Heavensbee in the last few months. Another magician would surely take that influence away, as Mr Heavensbee would turn to them for advice instead? It would not do…

Mr Heavensbee considered this unappealing prospect for a moment. He had lived his life in fear of seeing other men do magic, but now that he finally had, he found he was not frightened or angry, but thrilled. But what if Mr Cato was right? What if Mr Mellark proved to be a threat to him? "All the more reason for me to guide his studies," said Mr Heavensbee. "If I can control what he learns, then I can ensure it will not be used against me."

The two men re-entered the drawing room. Haymitch was still in his usual position in the corner, while Mr Crane was clearly bored and had taken to polishing his pocket watch to a shining gleam. Mr Mellark was stood by the window, his hands behind his back, rocking on his heels as he waited for Heavensbee's return.

"I should very much like to guide your studies. Show you how to develop and control your talents," said Mr Heavensbee, experiencing a terrible pang in his stomach as he realised the conversation very much echoed the ones he had had with the gentleman with snow-white hair.

"I would certainly be honoured," replied Mr Mellark. "It is so very tedious wishing to know more but having no resources from which to learn."

"Then we must rectify this immediately," said Mr Heavensbee. He went to a bookshelf and picked out a book. Nothing too dangerous: a biography of a theoretical magician from the 17th Century, Robert Francis Ferrer, who was one of the first men to postulate that the role of fairies within magic was vastly over-exaggerated. "I should very much like you to read this," said Mr Heavensbee, looking down at the book in his hands as if he were unsure how to proceed.

He looked up and was a little taken aback to see that Mr Mellark was stood beside him. "You wish for me to read this book?"

Mr Heavensbee nodded.

"Then you shall have to hand it to me, sir."

His internal struggle became even more apparent, and it clearly took absolutely every last piece of Mr Heavensbee's resolve to part with the book, which he parted with only with the utmost reluctance. After the book was passed to him, Mr Mellark caught Haymitch's eyes, and he could swear that he saw the ghost of supressed laughter in the servant's eyes.

Once he had parted with this first book, the hardest task seemed to be over for Mr Heavensbee, and he had soon pressed no fewer than eleven other books into Mr Mellark's hands, and arranged for Mr Mellark to return early the next day to begin his education.

And just like that, with the meeting of the two magicians, the future of English magic was irrevocably changed.

* * *

**A/N - Thanks for reading, now please don't forget to review. And I *promise* that Peeta and Katniss will meet in the next chapter. and more will be explained about Katniss' affliction too...**

**Come and say hi on tumblr too! : alatarielgildaen**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N Thanks to all of you who have reviewed/followed/favourited. It makes a writer's day complete seeing those ffnet notifications!**

**And thanks as always go to the wonderful Court81981 for being fabulous support and being such a great beta. **

**I'm hoping this chapter will answer a few questions you may have had. Enjoy! **

* * *

Cinna shook his head as if to clear it. Moments before he had been dreaming of polishing the silver in Mr Everdeen's cabinet, but he could recall neither waking up, nor dressing, nor leaving the house. He looked around to take in his surroundings and found that he was in an unknown coffee house, surrounded by a very fashionable set of people. Seated opposite him was the gentleman with snow-white hair. On seeing the gentleman, Cinna began to understand. For months now he had been under the enchantment the gentleman had placed upon him. His waking life felt like a terrible, sluggish nightmare, and he only felt truly awake when the gentleman called him away.

"My dear Cinna," said the gentleman, "it is such a pleasure to see you, as always."

Cinna had learned that it was best not to appear perturbed by his sudden appearances in strange places. The gentleman with snow-white hair always maintained a cool exterior and appreciated the same unflappable nature in others.

"And you," said Cinna. He checked his surroundings once more. "Where are we?"

"The Bedford Coffee House in Covent Garden. I thought you would appreciate being away from the slave-driver that you call 'master.'"

"Mr Everdeen has always been kind to me, sir."

"Pah! He sees you as unworthy. He does not see your noble bearing, your stylish manners, your obvious high birth. Not as I do." The gentleman picked up his coffee cup and took a delicate sip. Sighing, he said, "It is for this reason that I must apologise."

"Apologise? For what, sir?"

The gentleman leaned back in his chair, entirely at his ease. "Under the terms of the magician's agreement, I am forced to return Miss Everdeen to her dull life here in England every morning. Of course, no such agreement was made regarding you, so perhaps you have been wondering why it is that I do not simply allow you to live in Panem, why I force you back into a life of drudgery and servitude every day."

A shudder passed over Cinna's skin, that he forced himself to repress. Since meeting the gentleman, his life had become a strange dichotomy; during the night, while in Panem, he was forced to dance to the never-ending, dreary music that came from the sole pipe and viol. Sometimes he would be forced to watch violent re-enactments of past battles that the gentleman had taken part in. If two people greatly displeased him, they would be forced to battle to the death like the gladiators of old. He loathed every second of his existence in Panem, and yet while he was away, he felt lethargic and stupid, as if he were living in an inescapable nightmare. He supposed Miss Everdeen must feel the same way, and yet the strange enchantment placed upon both of them prevented either of them from speaking about it.

Out loud, Cinna said, "I had wondered something of the sort, sir."

"The answer is very simple," replied the gentleman. "I am certain that one day you will be king, and it would be entirely wrong of me to remove a king from his kingdom. Know that it pains me that I have to return you daily to this terrible land. But, as a reward and a token of my esteem for you, I have decided to present you with a gift."

Cinna bowed his head towards the gentleman. "Your generosity is boundless, sir, but I have no need for gifts."

The gentleman waved his hand dismissively. "Nonsense. I have decided that I will find your name!"

He said this with such finality that Cinna was momentarily taken aback, until he was able to process the words. "My name, sir? But I already have a name!"

"No," replied the gentleman, and Cinna was certain that the temperature in the coffee house suddenly dropped by several degrees. "I am not talking about the name forced upon you by the slave-drivers. I am talking about the name your mother gave you."

The image of a hellish boat, filled with kidnapped souls being transported to a strange and distant land, swam sickeningly before Cinna's eyes. For a moment, he swore that he saw a beautiful woman clutching a wailing baby to her breast. The woman whispered a word to the crying babe, who quieted immediately. The image changed, and Cinna was filled with an unparalleled rage; he saw the woman, beaten and bloodied, as she was ravaged again and again by the sailors on the ship, while the baby, swaddled in filthy rags, cried nearby. He watched a tear fall from the eye of the beautiful woman as her gaze fell upon the tiny baby, and a similar tear fell from his own eye as he watched her draw her final breath.

"She died," he whispered. "She never named me."

"Of course she did," replied the gentleman. "It would be a very strange mother who never named her child. There will be a name that she would have whispered to you in the quiet moments, that she thought of as you grew within her, as you grew together. I will find that name for you, Cinna. My gift to you."

"Thank you," said Cinna, struggling desperately to keep both his voice and his emotions under control.

In the lull between them, the conversations of other gentlemen surrounding them could be heard.

"As I understand it," one gentleman was saying, "by righting that grounded ship in Portsmouth, Mr Mellark saved the Admiralty several thousand pounds, and saved over a hundred souls from drowning."

The temperature dropped dangerously again. Any mention of the two magicians was sure to send the gentleman into a rage. "What do you think of the second magician, Cinna?"

"To be perfectly honest, sir, I do not think of him."

A thin, tight smile passed over the lips of the gentleman, overwhelming Cinna with the smell of blood and roses. "Ah, my dear Cinna, you always know what to say! I had such high hopes for that one, but he proves himself to be just as stupid and almost as ugly as the other one! Tell me Cinna, what do you know of the Raven King?"

"I am sorry, sir. Not much. I was never lucky enough to receive a magi-historical education."

"Ahh, then Cinna, you are lucky, for you get to hear about him first-hand from me! He was a true magician, Cinna. Beautiful, powerful and vengeful, as any magician should be. He was loved and respected by every single one of my race, and likewise he loved and respected us. He did not learn from _books_—" he spat this word as if swearing, "—he learned everything he knew by deferring to us in all his studies. And look at everything he achieved! Kingdoms in all the worlds that there are! And his name is still revered above all others! When I first beheld the new magician, I wondered if he would be different. I waited and watched and did not reveal myself to him, as I wanted to know his intentions, and I am so relieved I waited! He has not an original thought in his head, and instead copies, parrot-like, the other magician's words! Oh, and he has a way about him, that is turning all of England against me and my kind! Perhaps I should have him killed…." he finished thoughtfully.

"There is no need for that," said Cinna hastily.

The gentleman stared at Cinna for a moment before he began to speak. "Yes, I suppose you are right," he said, "and once you are king everyone will see him for the fool he is. He will be shunned! An outcast! Yes, yes that is a much more delicious fate for him."

Cinna smiled and inclined his head towards the gentleman. There was no point reminding him that he, Cinna, would never be King of England, despite what the gentleman proclaimed. And even if he were, by some strange twist of fate, elevated to a position of royalty, vengeance would not be one of his priorities.

* * *

"I just cannot understand him. When we first met, it appeared that he wanted nothing more than to take me on as his pupil. And there are still times when nothing excites him more than imparting a piece of knowledge, or seeing me perform a piece of magic correctly, and yet today…" Mr Mellark shook his head at the memory. "Today I spent three hours listening to his lecture on precaution. We did not open a single book until after we had lunched, and even then, whenever we came across a paragraph containing information he felt unsuitable for me to know, he would panic, snatch the book from my grasp and begin his lectures anew!" Mr Mellark bent over the billiards table and took his shot, but he was so distracted from the events of the day that he missed the easy shot.

Mr Odair smiled sympathetically. "You cannot say that I did not try and warn you at the very beginning," he said as he potted three balls in a row.

"I know. And before you say anything, I still think this is the right decision." Mr Mellark sighed heavily before resuming his place at the table. "It is surely a heavy burden he carries, being the man who singlehandedly brought magic back to England. I suppose I should allow him some eccentricities." He cursed under his breath as he missed another easy shot.

"You are correct that he carries a heavy burden. But surely you can see that much of it is his own fault? He is the one who has secluded himself away from the company of his contemporaries. He is the one who has manipulated others into giving up their dreams. And it would certainly appear that he is the one now hiding knowledge from you." Mr Odair grinned as he sunk his remaining ball, winning the game. Mr Mellark waved his hand in the direction of the table and the balls reassembled themselves, ready for a new game.

"But I cannot understand why he would withhold knowledge! Have I not already proven my usefulness to him? Before I began my studies, he was beset every day by requests to aid this ship, or spy on that general, or help this battalion, and every day he found himself having to explain why he could not help, how it was too much work for just one man. Not anymore! In the two months I have studied under him, together we have worked magic that has not been seen in England in hundreds of years."

"Well," said Mr Odair, as he made the first break, "did you say or do anything that upset him?"

"I made no mention of the Raven King, nor of any fairies, if that is what you are asking. I am more than well aware that I am only to spout the same old, tired drivel that fairies are evil, that we do not owe our magic to the King, even though I myself have been given no _real_ explanation as to _why…._ I merely asked him about the type of magic he employed to resurrect Miss Everdeen."

"He hasn't shared the spell with you?"

"No," sighed Mr Mellark. "He claims it is too dangerous for me to know. He refuses to share even the title of the book in which it was found. And I strongly suspect that even if he did tell me the title, it would be in one of the books secreted away in Northolt Abbey, where it is entirely beyond my reach. I have found only vague mentions of resurrection in other books, but these seem to be more concerned with the nefarious purpose of reanimating corpses rather than restoring people to life."

The two men resumed their game in silence for a while, each contemplating the horror of the walking dead.

"What is she like?" asked Mr Mellark at long last.

"Who?"

"Miss Everdeen. The most famous subject of the most famous magician."

Mr Odair paused in his contemplation of the table and stood up straighter. "Tragic. I don't know that there is a better term. She is devastatingly beautiful but is surrounded by an all-pervading sense of sadness. She is calm for the most part, but the most innocuous statement can send her into a fit of tears. Miss Cresta visits her often, but a crowd of people appears to be one of her triggers. She greatly prefers the quiet company of just one or two people."

"And no one knows the cause of her sadness?"

Mr Odair shook his head. "It is the strangest thing. When she was first brought back to us, she was the life and soul of every gathering. She would be the first to dance and the last to leave the floor. Her energy seemed boundless. Then from nowhere a lethargy fell over her. At first, everyone assumed that she had simply attended too many parties too frequently, and that a little rest would refresh and restore her. But she grew more and more fatigued daily, refusing all pleasures until she became the hollow shell of the girl that she once was." Mr Odair picked up a piece of chalk, absently rubbing it over the end of his cue. "Miss Cresta blames herself. Her logic for this blame eludes me, but she seems to believe it is her fault for encouraging and inviting Miss Everdeen to every ball, every dinner, every social event that she could." He swallowed heavily before continuing, "Since meeting Miss Cresta, I have never seen her so low."

Mr Mellark turned towards his closest friend. "I should very much like to meet Miss Everdeen. Her sadness affects Miss Cresta, and Miss Cresta's sadness affects you. If there is anything I can do to ease the root of all this suffering, I should like to take the chance."

"Mr Heavensbee says that her malady cannot be cured by magical means. "

"Then he is probably right," sighed Mr Mellark. "In my studies I have yet to encounter any stories of any such illness as hers, let alone how to cure it, and of course he is far better read than I. But that does not stop me wishing to try, at least. Do you think it would be possible to arrange a meeting?"

"It is difficult to say. Mr Everdeen would give anything to see his daughter happy, but Miss Everdeen is distrustful of magicians. It took a great deal of persuasion on the part of Miss Cresta to convince Miss Everdeen that I posed her no threat."

"How strange that she would be so fearful of the very thing she owes her life to!" replied Mr Mellark, a small frown creasing his brow as he bent over the billiards table to line up his next shot. The revelation that Miss Everdeen was opposed to magicians was a queer one, but this did not stop him wanting to help her if he could.

* * *

Mr Crane had become very much accustomed to a certain degree of second-hand influence since befriending Mr Heavensbee. He was used to dining with ministers and the landed gentry. If people wished to speak with Mr Heavensbee, it was Mr Crane or Mr Cato that they sought out first.

As such, Mr Crane had expressed as much concern over Mr Heavensbee educating the second magician as Mr Cato had. In the months since Mr Mellark had first arrived unannounced on the doorstep of Hanover Square, Mr Crane's worries had been shown to be not without foundation. While they were still regular faces at Hanover Square, their opinion was once valued almost as much as any minister's, and a good deal more than the impertinent servant, Haymitch. Now, whenever Mr Mellark was present, it appeared that Mr Heavensbee had eyes and ears for no one else, and when he was not present, he became the sole topic of conversation.

It really was becoming incredibly tiresome, especially because the new arrangement was directly affecting Mr Crane's already precarious financial situation. Before Mr Mellark had entered their lives, he had become used to seeking out magical commissions for Mr Heavensbee. And if the government were willing to pay Mr Heavensbee to perform a piece of magic for them, then naturally Mr Crane would take a certain percentage for finding him the work. Mr Heavensbee was unaware of the situation, but Mr Crane felt that what Mr Heavensbee did not know would not harm him.

But now... Now that the charismatic and vastly approachable Mr Mellark was available, the government went directly to him with their requests, and as such Mr Crane had found himself in the unenviable position of succumbing to mounting debts.

There surely had to be a way to remove Mr Mellark from the equation. And then, one evening, while Mr Crane was being forced to dine with a rather unimportant mill owner and his terminally boring daughter, because Mr Mellark was occupying Mr Heavensbee's attention once again, the solution came to him. The idea that he may soon be rid of Mr Mellark for good lifted his spirits tremendously, and he even allowed himself to join in with the otherwise tedious conversation, knowing that his days of second-rate dining would once again be drawing to a close.

Two days later, he and Mr Cato were sat in the main drawing room in Hanover Square, being served coffee by Haymitch.

"I hear reports that the war in Europe is not going in our favour," he said rather nonchalantly.

"Well, Mr Mellark and I are working as hard as we can to aid the Admiralty," sighed Mr Heavensbee. "But of course there is only so much that just two men can do."

"And of course, you are both to be commended. But from what I understand, it is the armies on land that are suffering most. If only Lord Wellington had a magician at his disposal…."

"I have no desire to travel to Portugal or wherever Lord Wellington currently finds himself! I will do all I can to aid our fight, but I have no wish to see a battlefield!"

"Oh, I quite agree," replied Mr Crane sympathetically. "A battlefield is no place for a venerable gentleman such as yourself. The honour of fighting….it is a young man's game."

Mr Heavensbee's eyes widened as he began to understand Mr Crane's meaning. "No, no, no! I need Mr Mellark here! I could not possibly achieve everything that needs to be done without him! No. We will find a way to aid Lord Wellington. But it will be with Mr Mellark here in England."

Mr Crane inclined his head slightly towards Mr Heavensbee. He had not expected Mr Heavensbee to go with the idea immediately. But he had planted a seed of an idea that he hoped, in time, he would be able to nurture to fruition.

* * *

When Mr Heavensbee first announced that he had taken on a pupil, Mr Everdeen assumed that said pupil would be very much in the vein of the Yorkshire magician. As such, he was most surprised to find that this pupil was a young, witty and rather charming gentleman.

He was still in two minds about magic; there was no denying that without Mr Heavensbee's spell, his daughter would be dead, and yet his daughter had such a vehement dislike of anything magical. But Mr Everdeen was a politician, and the nation was obsessed with magic. As such, he was unable to pretend it didn't exist and was eminently grateful at the discovery of the new magician, who was a far easier man to deal with.

He had summoned Mr Mellark to his home to discuss with him the possibility of using magic to recruit wild animals to the English cause. Some ministers had the notion that animals could be used to spy upon Bonaparte and report back to the English soldiers. They had already decided that Mr Heavensbee would be sure to disagree to the idea immediately, whereas Mr Mellark may well prove to be more persuadable upon the subject.

When Mr Mellark arrived at Mr Everdeen's home on Piccadilly, Mr Everdeen had been called away on urgent business. His servant, Cinna, opened the door and invited Mr Mellark to wait inside, as Mr Everdeen was sure to return within the hour.

He led Mr Mellark through to a comfortable but small drawing room and offered him tea, which Mr Mellark gratefully accepted. Mr Mellark had heard of this servant's reputation as being one of the most attentive servants in London, and as such, he was surprised to see the butler's hands shaking as he poured the tea into a delicate china cup.

After a half an hour, Mr Everdeen had yet to return, and Mr Mellark began to grow restless. He wandered about the drawing room looking for something to do, until his feet bore him out of the drawing room and into the hallway.

For want of any other occupation, Mr Mellark began to study the paintings hanging in the hallway. Most depicted pleasant countryside views, but there was nothing particularly exciting or original. A doorway to his left opened out into a spacious and well-lit drawing room, and within he could see several other paintings hung about the walls. He stepped inside and began to admire a Venetian scene, showing the sun setting low behind the Basilica in the Piazzo San Marco. He longed one day for an end to the war so that he might travel, and Venice was a city he hoped with all his heart he would visit one day.

The next painting was incredibly unusual. It depicted the most beautiful young woman he had ever seen in his life. She appeared to be staring straight out of the canvas at him with her doleful grey eyes, but the most unusual part of the painting was that the artist, for reasons unknown, had replaced the young woman's lips with a white rose. As he stared into the depths of the painting, the woman within shifted slightly. He jumped with fright and turned. There, in front of him, was the woman in the painting. There was no rose in place of the young woman's mouth, but she was dressed exactly as she had been in the painting, and sat in the same pose. Mr Mellark snapped his gaze back to the painting and was highly disconcerted to see a reflection of himself. No longer a painting, but a mirror….

Turning back to the young woman, Mr Mellark stammered an apology. "I am terribly sorry, miss, I had no idea that I was disturbing anyone. Please accept my apologies."

He began to back out of the room when the young lady spoke. "You are not disturbing me. You wished to view the paintings? Please do not let me stop you."

Now that he had been invited to stay it would be a terrible breach of decorum to leave, and so Mr Mellark moved on to the next painting. Another Venetian scene. But Mr Mellark was unable to focus on the picture. His mind drifted to the young woman behind him, and the knowledge that this, surely, was the elusive Miss Everdeen.

Torn between his desire to speak with her, his wish not to offend after being asked to stay, and discomfort at the impropriety of being alone with her without a chaperone, Mr Mellark scanned the remaining landscapes as quickly as possible.

"What do you think of them?"

Mr Mellark turned back to the last painting. It showed a castle in a terrible state of disrepair. The stormy sky was almost black with ravens, and the floor was littered with the bodies of men killed in some great battle. It was a most distressing and unusual painting, and one that Mr Mellark was surprised to find in the home of the Foreign Secretary, especially considering his daughter's well known delicate frame of mind.

He opened his mouth in order to try and find something complimentary to say, but found that words eluded him.

"I hate that picture," supplied Miss Everdeen, "and I confess myself surprised that you can see it. I wondered if it had been placed there for me and me alone."

Mr Mellark turned back towards Miss Everdeen. There was a resigned, defeated tone to her voice that did not become one so young and beautiful, and Mr Mellark suddenly understood Mr Odair's description of her; she was the most beautifully tragic figure he had ever encountered.

"Why might that be?" he asked her kindly.

A bitter smile crossed her face, and when she spoke it was in the same tired and resigned voice. "There is no point in trying to explain it to you." She lifted her hand to cover her mouth, clearly trying to stifle a yawn.

"My apologies, Miss, you must be tired. I should leave you in peace."

"No, please! Don't go!" protested Miss Everdeen. "I so rarely meet new people these days. Please do not think me rude. I am always tired. Nothing will change that."

"Miss Everdeen's sad illness is well-known. I am sorry. Is there anything I might fetch you to make you more comfortable? Should I summon a servant?"

"No, please do not bother dear Cinna on my account. I know full well that Cinna suffers as much as I, and yet he does not have the luxury of rest that I have. I should not wish to be the cause of any extra stress or strain upon him."

She offered Mr Mellark a sad and despondent half-smile and as she did so, Mr Mellark realised that while he knew who she was, she must have no idea as to who he was, or what his business was. And yet without someone to make the introductions he felt unsure of how to proceed.

"Forgive me, Miss Everdeen, I have disturbed your peace and have not even introduced myself. Peeta Mellark. I am waiting upon your father as second magician-in-chief to the British Government."

"Magician?" asked Miss Everdeen, and a terrible grey pallor coloured her face.

Too late, Mr Mellark remembered Mr Odair's warning that Miss Everdeen did not trust magicians. "I mean you no harm," he stammered, raising his hands in a gesture of placation. "I understand that magic upsets you, and I promise I will do none while you are present. You already know a colleague of mine, Mr Odair? Allow me to prove myself as trustworthy as he."

Tears swam in Miss Everdeen's eyes, and her breathing became shallow. "Please let me go. Please let me go. Please let me go." She repeated the phrase over and over, as if speaking to some invisible tormentor, and Mr Mellark felt a huge rush of pity towards her.

"Miss Everdeen?" said Mr Mellark, taking a small step towards her.

The young lady's eyes snapped up to meet his, and she spoke with a deliberate force "Perhaps with you I shall succeed where with others I have failed. Many years ago a young man carved a canoe from the trunk of a great fallen oak. He did this by moonlight, and the moon took a fancy to the young man, and so ensured his protection whenever he took the canoe out at night. But the sun became jealous and…." She bit down hard on her lip and made a cry born of pain and frustration.

At that moment, Mr Everdeen entered the room and saw Mr Mellark standing over his distressed and crying daughter. "What have you done to her?" he demanded.

"I am sorry," Mr Mellark stammered.

"Please, Father," cried Miss Everdeen, "it is not this gentleman's fault. The blame rests entirely on the shoulders of another."

"Who, my love? Who has done this to you?"

She was silent for a moment and appeared to be struggling with an inner turmoil, before she choked out the words, "I cannot say," and broke down in a fit of tears.

Mr Everdeen turned towards Mr Mellark and said in a defeated tone, "I think, perhaps, this meeting should be postponed. I would appreciate your discretion regarding anything my daughter may have told you."

"Of course, sir," replied Mr Mellark, bowing his head towards the foreign minister, and casting one final glance towards Miss Everdeen. As he left the drawing room, he saw Miss Everdeen's reflection in the mirror, and for a moment he could swear that he saw a gentleman with snow-white hair leering over her, but he blinked and the reflected apparition was gone.

* * *

For the rest of the day, Mr Mellark could not stop thinking about the beautiful Miss Everdeen, nor of the strange and all-pervading sadness that surrounded her. Nor could he stop feeling that there was more to her affliction than met the eye. The strange mirror with its deceitful reflections suggested as much.

She was undoubtedly the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He was no stranger to the pleasures of a woman's flesh, but he was certain that none of the delights he had sampled would compare to even a chaste kiss from the lips of Miss Everdeen. It was the thought of her lips that caused his heart to race as he lay in bed that night, and it was the imagined feel of her lips upon his that he focused on as he pleasured himself, and her name that he whispered into the darkness as he climaxed.

As his breathing returned to normal, he vowed that he would do everything in his power to help her. Despite what Mr Heavensbee claimed, he was certain there was some kind of magic at work, and he determined to find out and put a stop to it.

A contented, sleepy feeling washed over him, and he continued to think about Miss Everdeen's beauty as he lay back against his pillows.

Almost as soon as his eyes closed, Mr Mellark found himself in a strange and decaying castle that seemed oddly familiar. A red banner displaying the image of a white rose fluttered against the cold stone walls, and from somewhere outside he could hear a sad and lonely bell tolling. Within the castle's walls there was another sound— that of a solitary pipe and viol playing the most melancholy music Mr Mellark had ever heard. It spoke to him of the neglect of heartless parents and of the loneliness of elderly bachelors and spinsters dying without ever knowing true love. He had to find the source of the music, and he began to wander along the seemingly endless corridor. The gloomy corridor was lit by far too few candles, and the tiny, cracked windows were too far apart to allow much light inside.

Mr Mellark looked out of one of the windows and was disconcerted to see that the sky was alive with ravens, swooping in and out of each other, blocking the eerie light from the grey sky. They almost appeared to be dancing to the strange and sad music, and Mr Mellark was more determined than ever to find the source. He continued to walk down the cold and deserted corridor, until at long last, he reached a huge oak door. Pushing this slightly ajar, he was met with a room full of the strangest people he had ever seen. With his mouth agape, Mr Mellark began to wander amongst them.

Each one of them possessed an unearthly beauty and were dressed in fashions such as he had never seen. One woman wore a shining black dress that appeared to move and pulsate. On closer inspection, the dress appeared to be made up of a thousand armoured beetles, clinging to the woman and writhing over each other.

This woman made eye contact with Mr Mellark, and deliberately stepped towards him, causing the beetles to make a hideous clicking sound with each movement.

"I have not seen you here before," she said, and her voice resembled the strange clicking of the beetles.

"This is the first time I have had the pleasure of being here," replied Mr Mellark, although he had no idea where 'here' was supposed to be.

The beetle woman licked her lips, a hungry, predatory gesture, and said, "Might I have the honour of having your first dance?"

Even in this dream-land, the idea of being in such close proximity to the strange woman and her living dress was enough to make Mr Mellark's skin crawl, and so he politely declined and continued to walk amongst the unusual congregation.

In the centre of the room a particular dancer caught his eye. The lithe young woman had her back to him, but Mr Mellark was intrigued by her beautiful dress that appeared to be made entirely of fire. He wondered how the woman did not cry out or shriek in pain at the all-consuming flames and determined to try and make his way through the crowd towards her.

As he pushed past a gentleman who was wearing a coat of fine silk that sang strange and discordant harmonies, Mr Mellark accidentally became swept up in the dance. He smiled graciously at his partner, whose bejewelled dress had been created from the tears of a hundred thousand broken-hearted lovers.

Even as the dance progressed, and the steps became more frenzied, Mr Mellark could not tear his mind away from the girl on fire in the centre of the room. He kept stealing glances at her at every opportunity, and was met with disappointment every time, as the girl was always facing away from him.

At long last the dance ended, and Mr Mellark bowed to his partner, but it was not long until the solitary pipe and viol began to play again. He felt a little out of breath from the last dance, and was already tiring of the dreary and melancholy music, and he wondered why all the dancers appeared so enthusiastic to continue.

He ducked away from his partner and turned back towards the girl on fire. A surprised, "Oh!" fell from his lips as he accidentally walked straight into a strikingly handsome dark-skinned fellow. "Forgive me, sir," he said, before recognition caught up with him. "I know you! It is Cinna, is it not?" he asked.

"What are you doing here?" said the servant, with uncustomary vitriol in his voice. When Mr Mellark did not answer immediately he spoke again, "Do you not know how he hates English magicians? If he sees you here he is likely to harm you! You must leave!" Without another word, the servant took his partner's hands in his own and the two were swept away in the dance.

"Who?" cried Mr Mellark after the retreating form of Cinna. "Who hates me?" He watched the servant dance for a few more seconds, the strange and ominous warning ringing in his ears. With a heavy feeling on his chest, as if a lead weight had settled there, Mr Mellark felt that he had outstayed his welcome in this place. Where before the dancers held nothing but intrigue for him, suddenly they seemed dangerous.

Mr Mellark turned on the spot, determined to leave, and suddenly found himself face to face with the girl wearing the dress of flames. Both Mr Mellark and the girl on fire gave a gasp of shock.

It was Miss Everdeen.

"How did you find me?" said Miss Everdeen urgently.

"You clearly made an impression on me to feature so prominently in my dream," smiled Mr Mellark, knowing he would not be so bold in real life.

Miss Everdeen's eyes widened as she spoke in a hushed tone. "You are not dreaming, sir, I assure you."

Mr Mellark shook himself. "I am, Miss Everdeen. I assure _you._"

She shook her head and said, "I have been under an enchantment for many, many months now that brings me, nightly, to this castle. My life was bargained away to a wicked fairy for the sake of a man's career and I am…." Her eyes widened further and she looked shocked at the words she had just spoken. "I have been, until now, unable to speak of this enchantment. Mr Mellark, I beseech you, you have to help me. Cinna, too."

This revelation seemed so far-fetched that at first, Mr Mellark dismissed it as the ramblings of his own unconscious mind. But as he dwelt upon her words, he began to wonder if there was any truth to them. After all, Mr Heavensbee had outright refused to share any information regarding Miss Everdeen's resurrection. Was it possible that the reason he refused to elaborate was because of his own terrible hypocrisy? The rose at her lips in the strange painting…. The rose on the banner flying in this decaying castle…. He vaguely recalled reading somewhere that roses could be used to control and supress a victim somehow… The strange tales that fell from her lips when she had tried to speak of her enchantment previously…..and suddenly he believed every word that she told him.

"What must I do?" he asked her.

"If what I have heard about you is true, you will find a way. Please, Mr Mellark. Save me."

The flames of her dress licked higher, engulfing her, and her shining grey eyes blazed with a furious anger. Back in his rooms in Soho Square, Mr Mellark awoke with a start with no memory of the decaying castle, its bizarre fairy inhabitants, nor of the terrible and bitter truth regarding Katniss Everdeen.

* * *

**A/N - Thanks again for reading. Hit that review button, and if you feel like it, come and say hi on tumblr. User name is alatarielgildaen**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N - Thanks for your patience for this chapter! With S2SL going on, I thought we'd all have plenty to read in the meantime. And if you haven't read those amazing stories yet, there's still time! Check out S2SL on tumblr for details on how to donate to the charity and get access to some incredible HG stories.**

**Thanks as always to Court81981 for betaing this. ILY!**

* * *

The following day Mr Mellark returned to the Everdeen household in order to listen to the government's proposal regarding using wild animals as spies. The visions that Mr Heavensbee and Mr Mellark were able to summon in silver dishes of water were all well and good, but the government grew ever more frustrated at the lack of sound produced by them. The use of spies on the ground seemed like the obvious solution to the problem. Mr Mellark was well aware that the proposal had been put to him instead of his tutor, probably for the reason that he, Mr Mellark, would be more persuadable on the subject. As such, he felt rather uncomfortable as he explained how the spell would be most difficult to achieve.

"The problem, sir, lies in limiting the effectiveness of the spell so that it does not affect _every_ animal in the area. I believe Bonaparte would notice something were amiss if every single deer, rabbit, fox and rat within a mile radius were to show up and stare attentively at him. And of course we would have to ensure that they went _only_ where we wanted. Being living beings themselves, they may still retain some of their own will, and a rabbit may return with a detailed report of his own warren and nothing more interesting. And as the animal itself has no real interest in human affairs, it may well be unable to make the distinction between the French and our own allies. We could end up spying upon ourselves."

"I understand, although I doubt the other ministers will be pleased to hear it. Cinna, would you show Mr Mellark out?"

Mr Mellark had not heard the butler enter the room, but out of the corner of his eye, saw Cinna bow slightly to his master. For a split second, Mr Mellark swore that the servant wore a thin and elegant gold diadem across his brow, but when he turned it proved to be nothing more than a trick of the light.

"Sir, Miss Everdeen has requested an audience with the magician before he leaves," said Cinna, his professional manner barely masking the exhaustion in his voice.

Mr Everdeen stood up straighter. "My Katniss?"

"Yes, sir. She is quite insistent."

Turning to Mr Mellark, Mr Everdeen said, "Sir, you would do me a great honour if you would agree to speak with her. I understand if you wish to leave, after witnessing her outburst yesterday—" Mr Everdeen's voice trembled slightly, but he cleared his throat with a small cough and continued, "—if you can spare a few minutes it would not go unappreciated."

"Of course," replied Mr Mellark, hoping that his embarrassment did not show as he recalled his carnal thoughts from the night before regarding the minister's daughter. He took a deep breath to collect himself before following Cinna and Mr Everdeen into the adjacent drawing room where Miss Everdeen spent her days.

As soon as the magician entered the room, Miss Everdeen's eyes widened. "Have you found a way…?" she began, before stopping abruptly at the blank look on Mr Mellark's face. "You have no recollection, do you?"

"Recollection of what, Miss Everdeen?" he prompted her gently.

"Do you not remember meeting me?"

"I could not forget," he smiled. "I was here only yesterday."

"I do not mean here! I mean there!" She pointed towards a stretch of blank wall. Mr Mellark followed the line of her finger. Something seemed different… but the more he tried to recall precisely _what_ was different, the more it seemed to slip through his fingers like fine sand.

"I am sorry, Miss Everdeen. I do not understand."

Miss Everdeen looked between the wall and Mr Mellark, sadness clouding her beautiful features. "You can no longer see it?" she asked him. When he did not immediately reply she said, "You do not remember—" she turned away from the gentlemen in the room to stare out of her window, "—and I am forever doomed."

"Miss Everdeen, if there is anything I might to do to ease your distress—"

"There is nothing," she interrupted. "Cinna, if it is not too much trouble to you, please send for Madge to aid me. I think I should like to lie down a while. Good day to you, Mr Mellark. Please do not blame yourself for my disappointment. I should have known better than to have hope."

Wishing that there were more he could do to aid the beautifully tragic figure, Mr Mellark bowed his head slightly and said, "My offer will always stand, Miss Everdeen. Good day."

Mr Mellark walked out into the warm sunshine and was struck by the pleasantness of the day. It served to throw into even sharper contrast the tragic circumstances of Miss Everdeen's current existence. She occupied his thoughts as he crossed Piccadilly and walked up Regent Street towards Hanover Square. He had to speak with Mr Heavensbee regarding her condition, for despite what Mr Heavensbee said, Mr Mellark was certain that something had gone wrong with the spell that brought her back. After all, it was one of the first pieces of magic Mr Heavensbee had performed; he had not been as experienced and there was every chance that the spell had not worked correctly.

Meanwhile, in Hanover Square, Mr Crane and Mr Cato were busy nurturing the idea of sending Mr Mellark abroad. Mr Mellark's achievements in saving the grounded ship in Portsmouth were still the talk of London. He had been visiting friends in Portsmouth when the ship, _The False Prelate_ had run into difficulties navigating the treacherous sandbanks off the coast. It was well known that Heavensbee's pupil was in the town, and thus he was immediately sent for. It was incredibly fortunate that Mr Mellark had been there, for it was his quick, decisive action that saved the lives of the sailors that day.

"If the rescue of _The False Prelate_ has taught us anything, it must surely be the importance of having a magician on hand to deal with any eventuality," said Mr Crane.

"And if Mr Mellark were coupled with a general such as Wellington, there is no telling what could be achieved," added Mr Cato.

"No, no, no," replied Mr Heavensbee. "I have said it before, and I will say it again. I need Mr Mellark here. There is simply too much work to be done to justify sending him away. And besides, nothing, I repeat, _nothing,_ is so sure to evoke memories of the Raven King as the sight of an English magician on a battlefield. It is my deepest wish for magic to be regarded as a profession as respectable as law and a good deal more so than medicine. There is nothing more to be said on the subject."

"I wouldn't be so certain," said Haymitch from the corner of the room. Three pairs of eyes found him hunched over a desk, a spread of cards laid out before him. "The cards say that Mr Mellark will not be under your direction forever."

"Very interesting," said Mr Crane. "And do the cards give any kind of time frame?"

Haymitch gathered the cards up again, shuffled them and laid out a new spread. "No," he said after a while, "it just gives me the same answer each time—that he will, at some point, not have to answer to you."

"Put those dratted things away," snapped Mr Heavensbee. "If I have told you once, I have told you a thousand times, I do not approve of the use of those cards. And besides, prophesies are so highly inaccurate and very rarely come true."

"Marvel's did," shrugged Haymitch, risking inciting Mr Heavensbee's severe displeasure.

A heavy and loaded silence fell across the drawing room, broken suddenly by the clear ringing of a bell. Haymitch immediately cleared his cards away, to the accompanied sound of Mr Heavensbee's impatient tutting. "That will be Mr Mellark now. Do not keep him waiting, Haymitch."

As soon as the servant left the room, Mr Cato said, "I will never understand how you put up with that man's insolence."

"I need him," replied Mr Heavensbee. "Haymitch knows the world far better than I."

"Perhaps that was the case while you were in Yorkshire. But you are in London now. You have no need of an uncouth and ill-mannered servant to show you how the world works."

"You wish first to deprive me of my pupil, and now of my servant!" uttered Mr Heavensbee.

"No, not at all!" said Mr Crane. "But I would ask you not to dismiss out of hand what we have said. And I would not be at all surprised if the government makes an official request of Mr Mellark sooner or later anyway. Of course, I would understand your reservations in sending him away, but you must be aware that the ends justify the means."

When Haymitch returned with Mr Mellark in tow, Mr Heavensbee could not help but notice the look of consternation on his pupil's face: the slightly furrowed brow and vaguely downturned lips which indicated that Mr Mellark had quite possibly encountered a problem that he himself was unable to rectify.

"I trust everything is alright?" prompted Mr Heavensbee. "Would you care for refreshments before we start?"

Mr Mellark swallowed before speaking, and would not look at Mr Heavensbee. "I have just come from seeing Mr Everdeen," he said.

"Ahh, does the good minister have a new commission for us?"

"No," said Mr Mellark. "It would be next to impossible to attempt what was suggested."

"I understand," said Mr Heavensbee sympathetically. "All too often they ask the impossible of us, but that is no reason to become despondent! Instead, see this merely as an obstacle to be overcome, a problem which together, perhaps, we may find a solution to!"

"It is not that which concerns me," said Mr Mellark, looking up at his tutor at last. "I happened to meet Miss Everdeen, and there is much about the young lady which I find most worrisome."

Any mention of Miss Everdeen bothered Mr Heavensbee greatly. Most people had such little understanding of magic that they questioned nothing that Mr Heavensbee told them, but his remarkable pupil was much more astute than the average layperson. It was for this very reason that Mr Heavensbee had to restrict Mr Mellark's learning—both to protect himself from anyone finding out that he had lied to the nation, and to protect Mr Mellark from wandering down the dangerous paths that knowledge of fairies and Otherlanders could lead him.

"She is well cared for by her father," said Mr Heavensbee, especially concerned that Mr Mellark would speak of Miss Everdeen in front of Mr Crane and Mr Cato. "Do not concern yourself with the trifling affairs of young ladies. Let us get started, shall we? Mr Crane, Mr Cato, do excuse us."

Mr Heavensbee led Mr Mellark from the drawing room and into the library, but before he was able to even open a book, Mr Mellark spoke.

"Do you believe it possible, sir, that there may still be fairies in England?"

It took all of Mr Heavensbee's will to maintain a passive face. "No," he replied. "No, I am quite certain that they departed England at around the same time as the Raven King."

"But what if you are mistaken, sir? Think how much we could learn from them!"

"I am not mistaken!" he replied, becoming impatient.

Mr Mellark looked as if he had a great deal more to say on the subject, and, anticipating this, Mr Heavensbee said, "Instead of working on baseless hypotheticals, let us instead immerse ourselves in knowledge that has proven to be true." He reached up to take a few titles from his bookshelf, hoping that these would distract Mr Mellark from his current line of questioning.

"You cannot deny that there have been several reports of fairy sightings over the last three hundred years," continued Mr Mellark.

"Unsubstantiated nonsense from unreliable sources."

"And what if…." Mr Mellark swallowed and looked unsure as to whether he should continue. "What if there _was_ a reliable source?"

"Such as….?"

Mr Mellark sighed and looked more uncomfortable than ever. "There is a strange air surrounding Miss Everdeen. I…. I believe that yesterday I saw a rather terrifying figure near her. But when I blinked, it was gone. And the more I try to recall the details of this figure, the more they slip away."

"And you believe this figure to be a fairy?" said Mr Heavensbee, forcing as much contempt into his voice as possible. "I had credited you with far more sense than this, Mr Mellark."

"There is more," he continued. "It is just… it is hard to explain. I am certain there are other illusions surrounding her. And the stories that come from her…. She was convinced that we had met elsewhere, and seemed devastated when I assured her that we had not."

"Did you perhaps notice any small glass bottles about her person? Or a powder wrapped in tissue? The use of laudanum or opium will result in strange fantasies that the user fully believes."

"I do not believe that Miss Everdeen is using either of those substances, sir! Could it not be possible that, perhaps, something has gone awry with the spell that you used to bring her back?"

"No!" replied Mr Heavensbee with a severe finality. "The spell worked perfectly! If it hadn't, she would be dead by now!" He took _A Faire Woode Withering_ from his bookshelf, which was a remarkably detailed description of how magic in England rapidly declined after the departure of the Raven King. Handing this book to Mr Mellark, he said, "Read this. Let us focus on undeniable fact instead of these baseless speculations."

Mr Heavensbee watched the young magician as he opened the book and began to read, but could not help but notice the slight frown that still clouded Mr Mellark's features. Deep within the pit of his stomach, Mr Heavensbee began to grow more and more discomfited. He had never wanted to be associated with dark, fairy magic, and he could not risk the truth behind Miss Everdeen's resurrection being made public. It was most fortunate that all of the books that would incriminate him were safely hidden away in his library at Northolt Abbey, but if Mr Mellark continued to be as astute in his learning, it would not take him long to work out the truth.

* * *

Once again, Cinna was awoken from his waking nightmare by being summoned to a strange place by the gentleman with snow-white hair. They were in a glorious mansion, standing before a huge, sweeping, white marble staircase. Bright sunshine poured in through the numerous windows. This was not the English sunshine to which Cinna was accustomed. And the landscape visible outside the windows was not like any he had seen in London. The sky was too blue, the sun too bright, and those trees were not English oaks or elms.

"Where are we?" he asked the gentleman.

"America," replied the gentleman. "More specifically, Mississippi. This is where your father was brought."

The gentleman said these words in such an off-handed manner that it took a moment for their relevance to sink in. As they did, a cold sense of dread passed over Cinna's skin. "My father?" he said, before hurrying to the window to look outside, on the possible chance that he would catch a glimpse of this man.

A gentleman in a white suit walked down the stairs and Cinna froze in fear at the sight of him. This gentleman clearly owned the house, and by extension, the plantations surrounding it, and therefore all of his stolen brothers and sisters. In England he was often stared at and treated as stupid and ignorant by white men, even those with little to no education. Here, in this slave-owner's home, he could not expect to be treated even so well as that.

"Have no fear," said the gentleman with snow-white hair. "He can neither see nor hear us. But my search for your name brings us here. You see, shortly after whispering your name to you while you grew inside her womb, your mother kissed your father. Her lips passed your name into his. And so an echo of your name resided deep within his bones."

"He knows my name?"

"Not exactly," replied the gentleman. "He never heard her say it out loud. And anyway, he is now dead."

"Dead?" he echoed, as a hollow sensation settled on his chest.

"Yes. Killed for insubordination. They whipped the flesh from his bones."

A wave of terrible nausea threatened to overcome Cinna, and he was forced to grip tightly onto the window ledge in order to stay upright. "So… it is lost?" he asked, trying to deflect attention away from his own delicate state.

"No, not lost. We shall still find it. He was burned, and his ashes fell onto the ground by a peach tree. This is where we shall look next. But in the meantime I have another gift for you. Follow me."

The gentleman walked through to an adjacent room. The spacious and well-lit drawing room contained a single occupant: the plantation owner, who was sitting down to read a newspaper. The gentleman with snow-white hair crossed the room and stood behind the other man, then said in a voice laced with venom, "This man's name is Mr Thread. He is the man who bought your father. He is the man who ordered his death."

As he spoke, the temperature in the room dropped by several degrees, and the man stopped reading his paper and looked up and out of the window, concern on his face. "He does not deserve to continue living. And so I give to you—" the gentleman snapped his fingers, "—his death."

For a moment, nothing appeared to happen. Then the man cried out as if in agony and fell forward against his table. He looked up and desperately screamed for help.

"No one will hear him," said the gentleman. "No one will come."

Mr Thread screamed a second time, and Cinna noticed a splash of deep red across the back of his pristine white suit.

"What is happening to him?" asked Cinna.

The gentleman with snow-white hair smiled and the usual scent of blood and roses filled the room. "He is experiencing every single lash of the whip that he has ever ordered. I will not allow him to die until he has felt every single last sting." The gentleman sat down in a large, leather armchair. "Make yourself comfortable, my dear Cinna. This is going to take some time."

Cinna looked at the man on the floor screaming and writhing in agony. Part of him tried to find sympathy as the man's bloodied suit was ripped apart in front of his eyes, revealing the mess of flayed flesh underneath. But with each scream ringing in his ears, he reminded himself that this man had stood passively and watched as his father and countless others had experienced this exact pain. That he had been the cause of that pain. And so he sat on the chair recently vacated by Mr Thread and watched with a detached disgust at the screaming, writhing man at his feet.

Scream after scream after scream. Mr Thread's torment seemed never ending. His back was torn open, his bones were visible, and his was slipping and sliding in the pool of blood surrounding him. The wails that ripped through the air seemed inhuman, and after what felt like an hour of watching Mr Thread's punishment, Cinna could take no more. "Sir, allow this man to die. I cannot bear to watch another moment."

"You are a kind-hearted soul," smiled the gentleman, but he did not lift the spell operating on Mr Thread. Before long, the invisible whip torturing Mr Thread began to work on the front of his body as well, and Cinna could not believe that the man continued to live and breathe through the torment. No longer able to watch, Cinna turned away, although the man's screams continued to ring in his ears. Only when all the flesh had been stripped from his back, when his right eye was entirely destroyed and his left was hanging from the socket by a thin sliver of gore, when his reeking intestines had spilled across the floor, did Mr Thread finally quiet.

Cinna's breathing was ragged as he gazed upon the broken and tormented body of Mr Thread. A horrifying thought came to him. When his body was finally discovered, the blame would be sure to fall on the shoulders of one or more of the slaves. More innocent lives would be lost, and Cinna did not want to carry the burden of such knowledge. "Sir," he said, his voice shaking with supressed emotion, "we cannot leave this man this way. How will his death be explained?"

The gentleman stood up and walked to Cinna's side, staring down at the remains of Mr Thread. He tilted his head to one side slightly as if to better admire his handiwork. "Remember him as he is now, Cinna. Remember that he received his justice." He then snapped his fingers. The blood vanished, and Mr Thread's body was whole and intact, but he remained dead and inert. "It will appear to any doctor that examines him that his heart simply stopped beating." The gentleman pulled from his pocket a watch on a fine, golden chain almost as thin as gossamer and declared, "But oh my! We have dallied here far too long! I should not wish to deprive my subjects in Panem of your company for another moment! I shall return here to continue my search another time, but in the meantime, Cinna, you and I have a special event to attend."

* * *

The thoughts of Miss Everdeen that were constantly playing over and over in Mr Mellark's mind were becoming increasingly distracting. Earlier that day, he and Mr Heavensbee had been asked to put an end to a particularly vicious storm that had been preventing a ship carrying necessary supplies from docking in Portugal, but Mr Mellark had not been concentrating, and for a moment he had actually caused the storm and all its rain to appear in Mr Heavensbee's library. The older magician had become furious, even though there was no permanent damage, and had sent him away to study theory for the rest of the day. But as he read about the importance of focus and strength of will in a magician, all he could think about was Miss Everdeen.

He was certain that Mr Heavensbee was not being entirely truthful with him. But he could not risk upsetting him to the extent that Mr Heavensbee would want to end his tutelage. It had been hard having to invent his own spells without any real understanding of what he was doing or what the end result would be. And he was well aware that his few months of study under Mr Heavensbee had barely begun to scratch the surface. If there was another way to learn, someone else who could teach him, then maybe he could risk breaking away. But there was no one.

Entirely unable to focus on the words he was supposed to be reading, he folded a corner of the book down to save his place, aware that he would be chided for his behaviour when the book was finally returned, and leaned back in his armchair. Closing his eyes, he began once again to dwell on Miss Everdeen.

He imagined how her sparkling grey eyes might look if they were lit up with laughter rather than sadness, how that laughter would echo across her soft lips. He imagined how her hair would look if it were loose and cascading over her slender shoulders, how it would feel to run his fingers through it as he kissed her.

It was nearing one o'clock in the morning. His drawing room was warm and comfortable, and from outside the sounds of carriages rolling over the cobbled streets filled his ears. It was a surprisingly relaxing sound. As Mr Mellark crossed his arms across his chest, he allowed himself a small, contented sigh as he continued to think about Miss Everdeen's outstanding beauty.

Suddenly, he found himself in a long, darkened, cold stone corridor. From faraway, he could hear the sound of a crowd cheering. There was something strangely familiar about the corridor, with its tattered banners displaying a white rose on a red background. He did not feel concerned or even overly curious as to how he arrived in this place, and instead decided to explore his new surroundings.

As he proceeded along the corridor, the cheers became louder, until at long last he happened upon an archway that stood before a lowered drawbridge. He paused beside this for a moment. The cheers were coming from outside and did not sound welcoming; indeed, they sounded violent and full of blood-lust, and it was with the greatest of precautions that Mr Mellark proceeded.

The sky above him was grey and vast, and a thousand ravens swooped endlessly through the air. Mr Mellark had a vague notion that those birds were trying desperately to communicate with him, that their flight patterns formed words upon the sky that he would understand if only he could speak their language.

The cheering and jeering was far louder out here than in the castle, and it did not take long for Mr Mellark to find the source. An ancient and decaying amphitheatre was set into the side of a hill, as if clawed out by the hands of giants. Mr Mellark approached the theatre cautiously, making his way along the stone steps and seats, and marvelling at the strange people already assembled.

At long last, he found an empty stone step and sat down, and he was immediately horrified by what he saw. Three men and two women were all locked in mortal combat; several bodies of other fallen warriors littered the floor around them. Mr Mellark tore his appalled gaze from the combatants, as one of the female warriors tore open the throat of one of her opponents using only her teeth. The crowd surrounding him cheered their approval as he desperately fought the rising nausea within him.

A flickering light at the corner of his gaze caught his attention. Four rows behind him and barely a handful of seats along, was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, wearing a dress entirely made of flames. And all at once memories flooded back to him. He had been to this strange castle in his dreams before…. No... Not his dreams…. This place was real. The girl on fire…. Miss Everdeen…. She was trapped here, she had begged for his help, and he had awoken with no memory of either this place or their encounter.

He stood up to try and navigate his way towards her, to apologise for his failure but as he began to move, her gaze fell upon him. Her eyes widened in fear and she shook her head almost imperceptibly. Sat next to her was a gentleman with snow-white hair, who was watching the violent battle before him unfold with a look of great amusement on his face. Her eyes darted to the gentleman and back to Mr Mellark and seemed to be pleading with him. Above him in the sky, the ravens changed their flight patterns, and Mr Mellark thought that he understood their message: _Danger. Do not let him see you._

He nodded his understanding towards Miss Everdeen and slowly sat down once again, staring resolutely ahead towards the terrible violence. The woman whom he had witnessed tear her opponent's throat open made another kill, and during the uproar he began to slowly make his way back towards the edge of the amphitheatre.

He had to speak to Miss Everdeen once again, and so he watched and waited until at long last the gladiatorial battle finally ceased. From his hiding spot he witnessed the gentleman with snow-white hair descend the steps towards the stage. "My dear subjects!" he called out to the assembled masses. "Allow me to present your champion! Enobaria! Long may she be held dear to your hearts!"

The cheers and cries from the audience were almost deafening. Mr Mellark risked glancing over towards where Miss Everdeen was sat. Her face was impassive as she politely applauded the brutal display. Mr Mellark saw this as his opportunity to try and slip through the crowd unnoticed. If he was in danger, he would need a disguise. His clothes were far too ordinary compared to the fashions worn by this place's strange inhabitants; if he were to stay and speak with Miss Everdeen, he would need something similar.

Several raven feathers had dropped on the cold, hard ground, and Mr Mellark picked these up. He concentrated all of his focus upon these feathers, urging them to multiply and hold together in his chosen form, and before his eyes, the six feathers had become hundreds, and had shaped themselves into a long, hooded cloak. Mr Mellark threw this cloak over his shoulders, and covered his head with the hood, hoping that this would offer him enough protection from whatever dangers the gentleman with snow-white hair held for him.

He completed his creation just in time as the assembled crowd began to file out, and Mr Mellark joined with the crowd, his makeshift camouflage allowing him to blend in seamlessly. He hunched his shoulders in order to keep his face as covered as possible and risked glancing around to try and locate Miss Everdeen.

To his very great relief she was walking alone and Mr Mellark managed to manoeuvre his way through the crowd until he was stood beside her. "I am sorry for my conduct earlier today," he said in a low voice.

Beside him, Miss Everdeen jumped slightly, and Mr Mellark could not help the slight smile that uplifted the corners of his mouth. "That is quite some disguise," she replied once she had recovered herself. "And, pray, why are you apologising?"

"I made a promise to help you, and I was unable to fulfil that promise. I do not know why my memory failed me, but I assure you—"

"Please do not make a second promise that you will, once again, not be able to keep. If you could not remember our encounter before, I have no reason to believe that this time will be any different. I do not blame you for your failure." Miss Everdeen offered him a small, sad half-smile, and he became more determined than ever to help her.

"Who is the gentleman that was sat beside you? Is it he holding you captive here?"

"It is," replied Miss Everdeen.

"Then I have every mind to call him out."

Miss Everdeen laughed in disbelief at his words. "It is very noble of you to suggest such a thing," she said, "but you could not beat him in a duel. His magic is far too powerful for you. And I doubt he could be killed with a mere bullet."

"A silver one, perhaps?" he said with a touch of irony.

Miss Everdeen allowed herself a small laugh, and the sound sent a thrill of pleasure through Mr Mellark's body. It was a glorious, melodious sound, one which he longed to hear again. "Perhaps," she responded.

Together they walked in silence for a while, heading back towards the castle.

"Are all these people here captives, such as yourself?"

"Some are. Not all. And suppose I should be grateful that he still favours me. When he finally grows tired of my company I daresay I shall end up like one of those poor souls on the stage today."

"I will not allow that to happen, Miss Everdeen."

"I wish I could have your confidence in this," she said. "How do you even find your way here?"

"I wish I understood," he replied. "I still wonder if I am not, in fact, dreaming. The last thing I remember was sitting in my favourite armchair and being remarkably comfortable and tired." He did not mention how his thoughts had been so entirely centred on her. Before long, they had reached the drawbridge to the castle and were forced to walk slightly closer together, causing Mr Mellark to become increasingly aware of his heart pumping his blood harder and faster than before.

"Perhaps you are dreaming," she said, looking him in the eyes. "Perhaps that is how you are able to find me here and why you have no recollection on waking. But this place is still real."

"Then I need to find another way here."

She looked at him with pity, and shook her head. "How so, Mr Mellark? How will you find another way here, if when you wake you do not remember?"

From somewhere within the castle, a lone pipe and viol began to play. Miss Everdeen sighed deeply and said, "Soon I shall be expected to dance with my captor, but before I do, I would be most honoured if you would dance with me? It would give me a moment of pleasure to remember in my otherwise bitter existence."

"The honour would be entirely mine," he responded, bowing his head towards her.

They followed the procession into a large hall where the eerie, melancholy music was much louder. Mr Mellark took Miss Everdeen's small hands into his own and, together with a hundred other couples surrounding them, they began to dance.

Mr Mellark's breath caught in his throat at the beauty and grace of his partner. He was almost hypnotized as the strange flames that covered her body licked and flickered over her skin. "Does it not burn?" he asked her.

"No," she responded with a smile. "It is not real fire, see?" She took his hand as if to place it on her shoulder. He flinched and pulled away. "Come now, Mr Mellark. You are not afraid of fire, are you?" she said teasingly.

"Of course not," he responded, and he allowed her to guide his hand to rest on her shoulder, where the mock-flames danced over his own skin. He marvelled that he could not feel them at all. "Remarkable," he breathed. "Truly remarkable."

The music came to an end, and as Mr Mellark bowed to his partner, Miss Everdeen looked beyond him, a fearful look on her face. He turned to see the cause of her upset. The gentleman with snow-white hair was swiftly making his way through the crowds towards them. "Go," she whispered. "Do not look back and do not draw attention to yourself. I shall be fine. Please do not worry for me."

"Will I see you here again?" asked Mr Mellark.

"I can but hope," she responded.

"Leave me a feather," he said quickly. "If you can, leave me a feather in the corridor. That way I might disguise myself once again. I pray that I shall see you again, Miss Everdeen. Please do not give up hope."

"Go!" she hissed, and he melted into the crowd just as the gentleman reached her side.

In Soho Square, Mr Mellark awoke in his armchair, feeling content and at peace. He yawned and stretched, and looked into the dying embers of a fire that had burned in the grate. Miss Everdeen inexplicably came to his mind once again, and with a smile, he took himself to bed.

* * *

**A/N - Once again, thank you for reading. Please leave a review and let me know what you think, and feel free to come and say hi to me on tumblr! Username is alatarielgildaen. **


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N - Thank you to Court81981 for all her fabulous beta work, and to Streetlightlove1 for pre-reading. You two ladies are simply wonderful.**

**By the way, if you like historical fics, go now and read Court's All For One - because it is AWESOME. I mean, it kinda goes without saying that it would be, but seriously. Read it. Now. Well, maybe not *right* now. After you've read and reviewed this would be nice ;) Then go and read it!  
**

**As always none of this belongs to me. Characters belong to Suzanne Collins, and one piece of dialogue in this belongs to Susanna Clarke. **

**Oh and come and say hi on tumblr: alatarielgildaen**

* * *

The Duke of Roxburghe's library had long been a source of contention for Mr Heavensbee. Indeed, in terms of size and rarity of books it was second only to Mr Heavensbee's own collection. He had written to the Duke on many an occasion and offered to purchase any magical texts that the Duke might own—for a very generous sum of money. But the Duke was an old and immensely wealthy man; he had no need of Mr Heavensbee's money, and his collection of books was his sole delight. Every single one of Mr Heavensbee's letters had received the same response: that the books were not for sale.

The Duke died an old man with no clearly-delineated male heir, although several distant relatives made the claim to be the next in-line. Many lengthy legal proceedings were brought forth in order to decide who might be the next duke. It turned out that inheriting the vast wealth of the Duke was a very lengthy and costly proceeding, and when at last it was confirmed that Sir James Innes was to be the next Duke of Roxburghe, the library was immediately put up for sale as a means of paying for the debts accrued. Experts were called in to have the library valued. The whole process made Mr Heavensbee extremely nervous, and both Mr Crane and Mr Cato seized upon his agitation as a perfect cause to further their own agenda.

"Do you think they will discover any books of magic?" said Mr Heavensbee, ceasing his pacing for a moment.

"Oh, undoubtedly," replied Mr Cato in his usual bored drawl. "The Duke's library is frequently described as one of the wonders of the modern age. I would be most surprised to hear that he did not have at least one or two magical works hidden away in there."

"But surely, if any are discovered, they will be offered to me to purchase over any other buyers? After all, there must be some records of my many requests to the Duke during his lifetime."

"Certainly that would be the noble and proper thing to do," added Mr Crane. "And I am quite sure that were the new Duke not so deeply in debt, he would sell them to you privately. However, he needs to raise as much money as possible. I think we can expect to the library go up for auction."

"Auction?" said Mr Heavensbee in a horrified voice. "But at auction anyone might purchase them! This will not do at all. They should all be kept together, in a single collection! That is the proper way!"

"Indeed," said Mr Cato. "And I am sure that _most_ people would agree with your conclusion. Magical texts should absolutely belong in the sole possession of England's foremost magician. It is just a shame that not everyone will come to this sound and logical assumption."

"_Most_ people?" said Mr Heavensbee incredulously. "Who on earth would not think so?"

As he continued to pace, Mr Heavensbee did not see the knowing smirk that passed between Mr Crane and Mr Cato. "Why, Mr Mellark, of course!" said Mr Crane. "It is common knowledge how he trawled every bookshop looking for texts before finally seeking you."

"Yes," said Mr Heavensbee, dismissively waving his hand, "of course he wanted books _before_ becoming my pupil, but he has no need for them now."

"Do you really think so?" said Mr Crane, his eyebrows raised. "Of course, you know Mr Mellark far better than we do, but I have been under the impression that lately he has been greatly dissatisfied with his education."

It had been nearly a year since Mr Mellark had begun his tutelage under Mr Heavensbee. And while it was true that Mr Heavensbee had indeed lent him many, many texts to read, there were far more hidden away in his great library at Northolt Abbey. Both Mr Crane and Mr Cato were well aware of this fact. As, indeed, was Mr Mellark.

"But they _have_ to be kept in a single collection!" protested Mr Heavensbee. "And Mr Mellark must surely know this! Besides, I would allow him to read them. After I had studied them, and depending on the subject matter, of course…."

"Naturally," said Mr Cato. "But then, Mr Mellark is a rather contrary gentleman."

"But you cannot possibly believe that he would bid against me in auction?"

"I cannot see him doing anything else," said Mr Cato.

Mr Heavensbee chewed thoughtfully on the end of a fingernail for a moment. "When do you suppose this auction will take place?"

Mr Cato sat back in his armchair, entirely at his ease. "The books still need to be catalogued and valued. But I would expect them to be up for sale within the next two or three months."

Nothing more was said on the subject for the rest of the day. But the next time that Mr Heavensbee entertained a member of Parliament, he could not help but mention how vital it was for the war effort to have a young, fit, and strong magician to hand on the battlefield.

* * *

Cinna found himself suddenly subjected to a rather strange motion. The ground beneath him no longer appeared solid, as he bobbed gently up and down.

Awareness rushed in on him. His first assumption about the ground proved correct; —he and the gentleman with snow-white hair were sat in a small wooden rowing boat in the middle of a vast river.

"I am so glad that you were able to join me, Cinna," said the gentleman, as if Cinna was there by his own choice.

"It is always a pleasure," lied Cinna. He nervously looked at his surroundings. The boat conveying them was rather small and decrepit, and he did not know how to swim. However, the gentleman did not appreciate cowardice, and so he swallowed his apprehension. "Why are we here?" he asked. "And where are we?"

The gentleman leaned back, entirely at his ease. "Once again we are in Mississippi. The search for your name brings us back here. You remember how your father's ashes ended up under a peach tree?"

Cinna nodded, shuddering slightly at the memory of his last sojourn to this foreign land.

"Well, I spoke to the tree. He was a dear old fellow who remembered your father well. Your father's ashes nourished him in a way nothing else ever has, and as a result he was able to produce the most delicious peaches seen on Earth in over three hundred years. One summer's day, a beautiful young maiden took one of those peaches.

"Now, you see how fortune favours us! It so happened that the particular peach she ate was the very one that contained the memory of your name! However, she was a foolish young thing. She had fallen in love with a wicked young man who meant her all sorts of harm. In the dead of night, by the light of the moon and stars, he rowed her to the middle of the river and drowned her. No one but the moon and stars witnessed this."

"What happened to the young man?" asked Cinna, his voice barely above a whisper. "Was he ever caught?"

"He went back to his normal life. No one suspected him of such terrible treachery. All of her friends and family assumed the young maiden had simply run away. But every night, the moon and stars wept for the terrible crime they witnessed. Not tonight though. From now they can rest easy. The wicked man is dead. I saw to that."

A chill passed over Cinna's skin at the idea of what punishment the gentleman inflicted upon this man.

"Anyway," said the gentleman, "we are here to find what we can from the woman and the waters that swallowed her. Row for me, Cinna."

The gentleman indicated the oars which Cinna took up. He was unaccustomed to hard physical labour, and soon found himself short of breath, and felt sweat dripping down the back of his neck.

"Is our destination near here?" he asked, his muscles already aching with fatigue.

"Not far. I will tell you when to stop."

The gentleman lapsed into silence, while Cinna continued to row for what felt like hours. All of a sudden the gentleman held up his hand. "Here!" he said. "This is where the young woman lost her life."

He dipped his hand below the surface of the water and whispered a word, and it seemed to Cinna that the whole of nature listened to him. The river, the sky, the trees lining the bank, the rocks covering the river bed, the birds, the fishes… every living and inanimate thing in the area paid him rapt attention.

The gentleman closed his eyes and listened as the world spoke to him. Cinna thought that he could discern the different languages: the low whispering of the wind, the fast, high paced chattering of the birds, and the long, slow, mournful tone of the rocks. But it was the languid sermons of the river that gave the gentleman his precise answer.

Eventually the gentleman opened his eyes, and a smile crossed his face. Cinna held his breath against the all-too-familiar scent of blood and roses. "She was indeed drowned here," said the gentleman. "The river has expressed her sorrow for her part in the woman's death. She was held under by the wicked man, until the life left her body, then he threw her over the edge of the boat. Her body was cradled by the rocks until she was devoured by fishes. It turns out that your mother's name was eaten by a particularly greedy sturgeon, who was, in turn, caught and swallowed whole by a rather majestic eagle. This is most opportune for us! Your name will yet be found, dear Cinna!"

As Cinna felt himself being transported back to his regular life in London, a feeling of dread washed over him. There was no telling how many more lives would be lost in this strange search for the name his dead mother had given him.

* * *

Miss Everdeen had lost count of the number of dreary nights that she had spent in Panem. Days and nights no longer held any meaning for her, as one rolled into the next. It had been over a year since Mr Heavensbee had sold her life to the gentleman. A whole year wherein she had been unable to speak of the enchantment that transported her nightly to the gentleman's castle.

For the most part it was utterly unbearable. She could not remember the last time she had actually slept. But when Mr Mellark had appeared one night, it was like a beacon of hope. And although he remained entirely unable to recall their meetings during his waking hours, Miss Everdeen held on to the thought that he would one day save her.

There was no rhyme or reason as to which nights he would appear in Panem. At times he would come three, maybe four nights a week, and then he may not come again for a fortnight. Every night, on her arrival to Panem, she would sneak outside and collect several fallen raven feathers, and hide them in the corridor for Mr Mellark to find. She would kiss the feathers before hiding them, as if her kiss would somehow charm them, ensuring that Mr Mellark would indeed find her that night. And then, as she danced, she would desperately search the room for any sign of Mr Mellark's raven feather cloak, feeling despair if he did not show, and elation if he did.

It had been exactly thirteen weeks since Mr Mellark had first arrived in that dreaded dance hall. Miss Everdeen's hawk-like gaze scanned the heads of the other dancers, citizens of Panem and captive humans alike, feeling the familiar anguish that accompanied every night that Mr Mellark did not come.

With a heavy sigh, Miss Everdeen turned back to the crowd, and walked straight into another captive. "My apologies," she muttered, without looking up.

"None are needed," said a familiar voice, one which sent a wave of joy through her.

It took a great deal of effort to maintain a cool exterior. Mr Mellark was wearing his usual disguise, pulled down to mask his face, although his half-smile was still visible. With a boldness that only his presence seemed able to instil in her, she reached out to pull the cloak back ever so slightly, so that she might also see the bright azure of his eyes. When she finally met his gaze, she returned his half-smile. "I did not think you were coming tonight," she said.

"Then it is I who should apologise for giving you cause to fear."

"Do not apologise to me, good sir. You have given me reason to stay alive."

The melancholy music started up, and he bowed to her before they began the dance. He did not have the grace of many of the other dancers in the room and was often heavy footed in comparison, but she found this aspect of him rather appealing.

Tonight, however, his movements appeared almost clumsy. He seemed distracted, and there was a sadness behind his clear blue eyes that set Miss Everdeen on edge. "What is it?" she asked him.

He sighed deeply before answering. "I received some rather unexpected news today. It appears that I am to be sent away."

Miss Everdeen stopped dancing abruptly and stared at him, anger and hurt coursing through her veins. "Sent away? Why? Where? When?"

"The army requires a magician. They have seen the success of us aiding the navy and—"

"The navy has never required you to be sent away. Why should the army?"

"Their demands are far different. They need someone there, with them, who can make decisions on the spot as and when required—"

"You are going to war?" she asked. "To Europe?"

Mr Mellark nodded. "I am. But I see no reason that it will stop my visits here."

"Why you?" beseeched Miss Everdeen. "Why must _you_ be sent away?"

Mr Mellark allowed himself a small, self-deprecating laugh. "England's foremost magician has no place on a battlefield. And there is no one else but me."

The thought of Mr Mellark—Peeta, as she was beginning to think of him—on a battlefield, where she might lose him forever… The thought was almost too much to bear. "You must promise me you will be careful," she said, tears forming in her eyes.

"Of course I will," responded Mr Mellark. "I shall be surrounded by England's finest. I am certain that I could not be in better hands."

"How long will you be gone?" she asked him.

Mr Mellark's gaze dropped to his feet. "I do not know," he answered. "It could be weeks… months…." He hesitated before continuing. "My brother is a soldier. I am sorry to say that I have not seen him for nigh on two years."

The panic that had begun to form at his announcement continued to manifest and grow. "What if…. What if you are unable to find me here?" she said. "What if it is only your physical proximity to my own enchantment that draws you near to me?"

The bright blue of his eyes seemed to diminish somewhat. "It is possible," he murmured. "I admit that this was not an explanation I had considered."

It was already hard enough that Mr Mellark had no memory of their night time encounters during his waking life. But the idea that her anchor to sanity in these ancient and decaying halls could be lost was truly terrifying. For a moment she felt almost faint and lost her footing, stumbling slightly. Mr Mellark reached out and caught her, steadying her, and the warmth that flooded through her at his gentle touch reignited the hope within her. Suddenly emboldened, she reached out to stroke the side of his face, and as his breath caught in his throat, his cheeks immediately turned a deep scarlet.

He cleared his throat with a small, embarrassed cough and said, "Are you alright, Miss Everdeen?"

"Yes," she responded, her fingers still slowly tracing the contour of his jaw. Despite his obvious embarrassment, he made no indication that he wanted her to stop. And she realised that she did not want to stop either. Her gaze dropped to his lips as her fingers spread to cup the side of his face. With almost agonising slowness, Miss Everdeen drew Mr Mellark closer to her.

She had never before kissed a man, and she was not one to read the kind of novels her sister was so fond of, where young women spent their days trying to obtain dashing young husbands, and as such was not certain that her actions were correct. As to whether they were _appropriate_ she did not care. Mr Mellark would not remember this in the morning, and if he were unlikely to see her again for a very long time then her breach of decorum would not matter.

His lips were soft and warm, and barely parted as she pressed into him. Her hand dropped from his jaw to rest against his chest, and she could feel his heart beating strong under her touch. As her grip on the front of his clothes tightened, Mr Mellark's arms enclosed around her, and for the first time in as long as she could remember, she finally felt safe, as if his strong arms were able to ward off the nightmare of her current existence.

As he deepened the kiss, she melted further into his embrace, allowing him to set the pace. She gave a tiny yelp of surprise when she felt his tongue trace then push past the seam of her lips, and a groan of disappointment when he suddenly pulled away from her.

"Please accept my apologies, Miss Everdeen," he said, and she noted with a thrill of excitement how flushed and breathless he was. "It was entirely wrong of me to take advantage of you."

"You did not take advantage," she replied. "I wished to give you something to remember me by." She cupped his face once more, both of them fully aware that her kiss was nothing more than just a gesture, and that as soon as he awoke his memory would fail. "Besides, I had to do that, at least once. Who knows when I may get another chance?"

He swept her into his arms once more, placing a series of kisses along her forehead. "Please God, let me remember this moment," he whispered before he placed his fingers under her chin, gently tipping her head back. His lips met hers once more, and this time, as his tongue ran over her bottom lip, she opened her mouth to him and met his tongue with her own. A contented sigh passed his lips, humming into her own, until he reluctantly pulled away from her.

Miss Everdeen looked up into his normally bright blue eyes, and could not help but smile at how his irises were swallowed by his pupils. The adoration in his face took her breath away, before his gaze drifted up and looked beyond her. A fearful look passed over Mr Mellark's countenance. "He is coming," he said urgently, before taking her hands in his own, and pressing both firmly to his lips. "I _will_ find you again, Miss Everdeen. I _will."_

"Go," she whispered urgently, and with one last kiss to the back of her hand, he vanished into the crowds. She watched his retreating form with a burgeoning dread, as if it may be the last time she would ever see him, and shuddered as the gentleman with snow-white hair's frozen touch ghosted across her shoulders.

* * *

Mr Mellark awoke with a start. It was still early, and beyond his curtains he could see the golden glow of sunrise. Furiously blinking the sleep from his eyes, Mr Mellark got out of bed and crossed to his window. He had so few sunrises left on English soil, and wanted to appreciate every last one.

London's usual buzz and bustle had yet to begin this fine morning. On the streets of Soho Square there was barely a soul to be seen. As usual when Mr Mellark was alone, his thoughts began to stray to Miss Everdeen. He had the feeling that he had been dreaming of her, although he could recollect no details of the dream, other than the feel of her lips upon his.

So strange, the effect that she had upon him. Their conversations were few and far between, and aside from their first ever meeting, never private, and each one punctuated by the odd and fantastical tales that Miss Everdeen told. Mr Mellark was still certain that these tales were a result of some discrepancy in the magic used to restore her life and he had begun to document them, noting as much detail as he could on whatever scraps of paper were to hand. But despite the bizarre nature of the stories, there did not seem to be any common thread between them.

Pausing to run his hand over his face, Mr Mellark contemplated the day. He and Mr Heavensbee had a meeting with Alvin Spencer Coin, the Prime Minister—one final, dreary meeting before he was sent to meet his fate.

He hoped that before he left England he might also catch one last glimpse of Miss Everdeen, so that he could have a memory of beauty to take with him to the muddy, smoke-filled hell he was facing. Staring into the bright orange orb as it slowly began to rise above the London rooftops, Mr Mellark wondered if she was awake, if she was witnessing this moment of natural spectacle along with him. His imagination began to run away with him, and he pictured watching the sun rise with her at his home in Woodhay Manor. She would lie back with her head in his lap, making daisy chains, while he would stroke a few loose tendrils of her hair from her forehead, as the sun's rays slowly warmed them both. A tight smile passed over Mr Mellark's lips at the idea of this impossible fantasy.

Closing his eyes, he allowed the fantasy to play out unchecked. He would lie back in the long grass, wrapping his arms around her slender waist, bringing her down on top of him. Her grey eyes would look down into his with utter adoration before their lips would connect.

He held his breath for a moment, listening to the stillness of his home. He could not hear any of his servants moving around as yet; soon Gale would be coming to shave and dress him in readiness for the day, but for now he was entirely alone. Grateful for the solitude, Mr Mellark continued to fantasise about the feel of Miss Everdeen's lips. In his daydream, her body pressed into his, and he could feel the gentle swell of her breasts pushing into his chest. His hands began to roam lower over her body, tracing the contours of her waist, her hips, her bottom….

"Dammit," he whispered under his breath, as he could no longer ignore the way his body was reacting. He would not be able to focus on the day's events while his body behaved so errantly.

Lying back on his bed, he slipped his hand under his nightshirt, gently grasping his erection, slowly running his hand along his length. He focused his thoughts again on the fantasy as he drew his thumb over the head, spreading the moisture, before increasing his speed. The images in his head changed from being thoughts of chaste kisses to far more passionate encounters. He imagined how her breasts might feel under his hands, how soft the skin around her navel might be, and he dwelt upon how warm and wet her centre would feel as he buried himself deep inside her. An intense heat spread across his skin, as every muscle in his body tensed. Biting hard on his bottom lip, his hips jerked upwards one last time as he came with a muffled grunt.

Outside his window, the sun continued her never-ending journey, and Mr Mellark watched her rise for a few minutes longer, before cleaning himself with a handkerchief. Just in time too, as moments later Gale knocked at his bedroom door in order to rouse him.

He remained quiet as Gale sat him on a stool in order to shave him. Thoughts of Miss Everdeen and thoughts of his impending fate battled for supremacy in his mind.

"If you are willing to talk, I am always willing to listen," said Gale at long last.

Mr Mellark paused, still unsure of his own thoughts.

"I have overstepped my mark. I apologise," said Gale.

"No, no," said Mr Mellark. "Not at all. It is just that I find I have far too many thoughts of late, and it is hard to prioritise them."

"Well," said Gale, as he began to brush the soap over Mr Mellark's jaw, "I believe being sent to Europe may be one of the most pressing matters."

"Indeed. I cannot say I am looking forward to the noise and danger of warfare. Nor to the solitude of travel."

"Solitude? But you will not be alone. I shall be with you."

Mr Mellark looked into his servant's eyes, which were full of determination. "I cannot ask you to follow me abroad."

"Nonsense," continued Gale, as he wet the blade and angled his master's chin for the perfect shave. "You cannot even shave yourself. How do you expect to survive a war without me?"

He remained perfectly still as Gale drew the blade up his neck. "I cannot see that remaining clean-shaven is particularly pertinent to surviving a battlefield," he said as Gale wiped the razor clean. "And besides, I could always grow a beard."

"I have other skills and you know it," muttered Gale. "I am a far better shot than you will ever be."

"I never claimed to be good with a firearm. And I am not being sent there to wield a weapon like any common soldier!"

"No, but you will require protection while you spend your hours reciting spells. And I would not trust that protection to anyone else. Hold still."

As Gale drew the razor up his neck a second time, an uncomfortable thought came to him, and nestled in amongst all of his other uncomfortable thoughts. "Gale," he said when he was once again able to move, "I hope you do not wish to accompany me out of revenge for your fallen brother."

A strange look flashed across Gale's eyes. "I wish to accompany you because I cannot stand the thought of losing another brother," he said quietly, before tilting Mr Mellark's head back again. "Not when I could prevent that loss. Once again, I hope I have not overstepped. Anyway, I followed you to London. I hardly think that a war in Europe can be much worse."

"You see me as your brother?" he asked. "I am truly flattered."

"Besides," said Gale, smirking, "I daresay there will be a number of paintings commissioned showing your heroics in battle. You may still require a man to shave you yet." His smirk widened as he continued. "I daresay that Miss Everdeen prefers her heroes to be clean-shaven."

Mr Mellark snapped his head to stare at his servant. "That _was_ too far."

"My apologies, _sir,_" answered Gale, as he wiped the razor blade clean once again. Immediately Mr Mellark felt a mix of shame and guilt, both over snapping at the man who was offering to potentially sacrifice himself to keep him safe, and over the carnal thoughts he had been having for Miss Everdeen ever since first meeting her. Clearly he was not as good at keeping his feelings hidden as he originally anticipated.

Swallowing his pride, Mr Mellark said, "Do not apologise to me. I am sorry for being short with you. Be honest with me, Gale. What made you say that?"

It was clear that Gale felt discomfort, but he shrugged and said, "Every time she is mentioned something in your gaze softens. You have been this way ever since you met her. And since being in London, you are hardly short of admirers. For a long time I wondered how you so easily ignored all their attentions. Then it became very clear to me. There is only one young lady whose attentions you would welcome."

"I had not thought myself so obvious. And anyway, it is an impossible dream. While she is ill, her father will not welcome anyone courting her."

"If I may be bold, her father would surely welcome it if you were also the one to cure her."

A sad smile crossed Mr Mellark's face. "You are correct once again, Gale. If only any of us knew what was actually wrong with her."

* * *

In times of war, England needed her leader to be a ruthless soldier. Alvin Spencer Coin was exactly that, although some people questioned whether his ruthlessness was directed in the right manner, and whether the sacrifices from others that he so often requested were for the benefit of the country, or to prolong his own stay in power.

He, Mr Heavensbee, and Mr Mellark were in Mr Heavensbee's drawing room in Hanover Square, being served brandy by Haymitch. Mr Coin was clearly used to a different calibre of servant, and Mr Mellark could not help but notice the look of contempt that passed over the prime minister's face as Haymitch set the glasses in front of the assembled gentlemen; in response, Mr Mellark made a point of thanking Haymitch rather more than necessary. He wasn't entirely certain why, but something about Mr Coin set Mr Mellark on edge.

Mr Coin watched the display of gratitude towards the servant, his eyes slightly narrowed, before raising his glass to his lips. He took a delicate sip and said, "To business, then. A ship will be sailing from Southampton to Lisbon in eight days. You will be on this ship, and I am afraid to say that it will be no pleasure cruise. No special arrangements can be made to house you. This is a working ship that will be transporting supplies, and as such, your own comfort will be little regarded by the sailors. You will also have to share a cabin with your servant. I trust that this is not an issue?"

"Of course not, sir."

The prime minister nodded curtly. His silver wig bobbed up and down once, but every hair upon it remained curiously inert, and Mr Mellark felt almost overcome with the entirely inappropriate desire to laugh. He was unsure why – perhaps the realisation of his own mortality and impending fate was causing him to find humour in any available situation. Biting the inside of his bottom lip, he tore his eyes from the prime minister's wig to focus once again on the man's words.

"Once docked at Lisbon you will be able to seek out Wellington."

"And Lord Wellington knows to expect me?" asked Mr Mellark, composing himself.

"He has been written to, yes."

This did not seem a particularly satisfactory answer to Mr Mellark's question, but Mr Coin's wig was still proving to be a terrible distraction and the thought went through Mr Mellark's mind that if he were to reach out and touch it, it would prove to be made of marble or some other smooth material. Once again, he desperately had to fight the urge to laugh.

"Well, that is entirely settled, then," said the Prime Minister, beginning to stand and shaking Mr Mellark from his distracted reverie.

Mr Mellark's heart pounded so hard and fast that he was forced to take a deep breath before he was able to speak. There was still one last and important piece of business to which he had to attend. "Not quite," he said, his gaze darting around the assembled gentlemen. "There is still the matter of the books I will require."

"Books?" repeated Mr Heavensbee, his face draining of colour. It had not occurred to him that Mr Mellark would require books to be taken abroad. The thought of his books on a battlefield, where they might get muddy, torn, burned or blown up… it was almost too much to bear.

"Yes," responded Mr Mellark. From within his coat pocket he withdrew a crumpled piece of paper and handed this to Mr Heavensbee, whose ashen face grew paler yet. "I have managed to whittle the list down to thirty-four."

"Thirty-four!" exclaimed Mr Heavensbee.

"Yes," said Mr Mellark. "I should have liked to include more, of course, but on a practical level, I believe thirty-four will be sufficient."

Mr Heavensbee read Mr Mellark's hastily scrawled note, getting paler and paler by the moment, until his skin had taken on a faintly green hue. Mr Mellark tried to remain entirely passive as if his request were the most natural and unimportant thing in the world, although both men knew that he would never have dared ask if they had not been in the company of such an important man as the prime minister.

With a shaky voice Mr Heavensbee eventually spoke. "You must keep them in a library. As soon as you arrive in Portugal, place them in a library and work strong enchantments around them so that no one else might take them."

"A library?" said Mr Coin incredulously. "Mr Heavensbee, your colleague is going to war, not on holiday!"

"But he cannot possibly take the books onto a battlefield!"

"But it would be pointless to store them in a library!"

"This is true," agreed Mr Mellark. "I will need them to hand, wherever I might be."

"Then… then we will have to have a casket commissioned in which to house them. Good, solid English oak, preferably lead-lined—"

"Impractical," interrupted Coin. "There is not the time to have it made before Mr Mellark must depart."

"Then it can be sent to him later!"

"No. It would be a waste of resources. He must live and travel as all the other soldiers do. We cannot make exceptions. Mr Mellark, you will need a strong mule for yourself and your servant. The books will be stored in saddlebags and carried separately to the soldiers' carts so as not to be a nuisance and burden to anyone else."

Mr Heavensbee appeared almost on the verge of tears. "You must guard them," he said to Mr Mellark. "At all costs. Please. Protect them from mud and smoke and the thieving hands of soldiers."

"Of course," answered Mr Mellark in all seriousness.

After Mr Mellark and Mr Coin departed, Mr Heavensbee withdrew to his library. He took out the precious tomes that Mr Mellark had requested, holding them reverently, gently turning them over in his hands as if nursing a wounded bird. At that moment he wished that he had never come to London. He wished more than anything that he had stayed in Yorkshire with his precious library, restoration of English magic be damned.

As he held his books for potentially the last time, he barely even registered Haymitch's quiet snicker, nor his biting words. "Personally, I believe Mr Mellark will do very well in the war. After all, sir, he has already outmanoeuvred you."

* * *

**A/N - Thanks for reading. Please do leave a review. They nourish my soul and make me write faster :)**


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